H 


THE 


SIRS.    FELICIA    HEMANS, 


NEW    EDITION. 

ILLUSTRATED    WITH    STEEL    ENGBA.VIKGS. 


BOSTON: 
PHILLIPS,  SAMPSON,  AND  COMPANY. 

NflW  YORK  :  JAMES   C.  DERBY. 

1855. 


Sfacfc 
Annex 

• 


PREFACE. 

OF  the  genius  of  the  gifted  authoress  of  thii 
rolume,  it  is  deemed  entirely  superfluous  to  speak; 
its  proud  eminence  having  so  long  and  so  universally 
been  conceded  by  all  lovers  of  poetry.  Fame  is  the 
recompense,  not  of  the  living,  but  of  the  dead  —  not 
always  do  they  reap  and  gather  in  the  harvest,  who 
sow  the  seed  —  the  flame  of  its  altar  is  too  often 
kindled  from  the  ashes  of  the  great.  Hazlitt  beauti- 
fully represents  it  as  "  the  sound  which  the  stream 
of  high  thoughts,  carried  down  to  future  ages,  makes 
as  it  flows  —  deep,  distant,  murmuring  evermore  like 
the  waters  of  the  mighty  ocean."  Though  why  should 
we  insinuate  its  want  of  acknowledgment  to  her, 
when  she  so  eloquently  asks,  "  What  is  fame  to  a 
heart  yearning  for  affection,  and  rinding  it  not?  Is 
it  not  as  a  triumphal  crown  to  the  brow  of  one 
parched  with  fever,  and  asking  for  one  fresh,  healthful 
draught  —  the  '  cup  of  cold  water.?' ' 

No   reputation   can   be   called   such,  that   will    not 

endure  Hazlitt's  test ;  but  when  tried  by  his  measure, 

and  not  found  wanting,  this  is  fame  indeed.     When 

bus   favored,  may  it  not  begin   and  continue,  coin- 


(4) 

cident  with  the  popularity  which  is  so  often  mistaken 
for  itself?  May  not  the  spirit  of  a  man  transfuse  its 
influence  into  the  spirits  of  other  men,  without  the 
mythological  transmigration  which,  according  to  this 
theory,  death  implies ;  and  the  force  of  that  influence 
be  felt,  ere  yet  the  "  swift  decay  of  him "  that  so 
works  for  the  world,  shall  quite  release  him  from  his 
toils?  Alas!  it  is  the  common  province  of  the  one, 
to  enjoy  "  the  price  of  the  bitter  tears  of  the  other." 
But  it  is  enjoyed,  and  that  is  fame. 

The  best  confirmation,  melancholy  though  it  be,  of 
the  truth  of  these  remarks,  is  furnished  by  the  accom- 
plished and  amiable  writer,  whose  beautiful  illustration 
of  her  own  career  —  not  to  call  it  a  prediction  of  her 
own  destiny  —  we  have  borrowed,  as  better  expressive 
of  our  views  under  consideration  than  anything  we 
could  say  ourselves,  did  we  write  a  volume.  The 
mournful  fancy  sings, 

"  When  the  strain  is  sung, 

Till  a  thousand  hearts  are  stirr'd, 
What  life-drops,  from  the  minstrel  wrung, 

Have  gush'd  with  every  word? 

"  None  !  none  !  his  treasures  live  like  thine, 

He  strives  and  dies  like  thee, — 
Thou  that  hast  been  to  the  pearl's  dark  shrine 

O  wrestler  with  the  sea  t  " 


The  popularity  of  these  poems  has  been  perhaps 
entirely  unexampled  in  the  history  of  literature  of  this 
description.  The  extraordinary  newspaper  popularity 
of  her  later  writings,  is  itself  an  indication  of  the 
fact. 

But  why  need  we  occupy  time  and  space  to  prove 
that  which  has  everywhere  been  conceded?  Who 
will  deny  that  Mrs.  Hemans  has  enjoyed,  in  her  own 
life-time,  a  true  fame,  —  even  the  truest,  dearest,  best 
of  all  its  spices,  —  though  only  as  the  dim  beginning 
of  the  brightness  which  awaits  her  name?  Her  suc- 
cess was  complete,  and  the  lovers  of  the  muse  every- 
where confessed  it.  She  addressed  herself,  not  to 
passion,  or  fashion,  or  the  public,,  or  any  particular 
class  of  the  community  or  country  in  which  she  lived, 
but  with  truth's  transparent  and  glowing  passport  in 
her  hand  she  sung ;  and  wherever  there  was  civiliza- 
tion, there  did  she  find  grateful  and  responsive  hearts. 

That  she  enjoyed  this  reputation  while  on  earth, 
and  that  the  seal  of  immortality  awaits  her  name,  is 
not  strange ;  for  her  aim  was  God-like :  it  was  none 
other  than  to  be  the  worthy  interpreter  of  worthy 
truth,  deeply  concerning  the  happiness  of  her  race; 
and  the  vital  spirit  of  virtue  she  invoked,  inspired  her 
equal  to  the  task. 
1* 


(6) 

This  is  her  praise ;  and  it  is  praise  enough.  She 
did  not  seem  to  feel  the  high  dignity  of  her  profession, 
nor  forget  to  observe  it.  It  was  not  her  misfort  me  to 
make  a  vain  display  of  genius  faithless  to  its  trust ; 
but  rather  did  she  cultivate  self  as  the  means,  than 
the  end. 

This  was  her  praise ;  and  the  greater  for  its  rarity. 
Apparently  under  the  conviction  that  there  was  too 
much  extravagant  excitement  abroad,  she  chose  to 
take  the  reasonable  medium,  which  her  native  sense 
and  sensibility  alike  approved,  in  painting  faithfully 
the  humanity  around  us  as  it  is,  rather  than  weaving  a 
dreamy  web  of  things  that  should  be. 

Calmness  was  her  aim,  that  she  might  not  only  feel, 
but  feel  rightly ;  that  the  mind  may  the  more  faith- 
fully  mirror  the  impressions  which  meet  it  in  a  state  of 
composure,  and  thereby  that  it  may  learn  to  be  true. 

It  is  this  calmness  which  so  eminently  characterizes 
the  poetry  of  Mrs.  Hemans,  and  which  tended  so 
much  to  establish  her  reputation  —  written  as  it  was, 
for  the  most  part,  in  the  midst  of  a  stormy  time  in  the 
revolutionary  history  of  the  civilized  world.  It  was  a 
self-possession  which  never  forsook  her  in  the  heat  of 
her  highest  enthusiasm  of  joy  or  sorrow. 

Mrs.  Hemans  did  not  attempt  everything,  though 
the  ambition  of  most  authors  would  have  been  content 


with  the  range  she  occupied.  Her  only  limits  were 
nature,  principle,  and  truth.  With  these,  combined 
with  her  song-inspiration,  who  could  fail  of  conviction 
and  admiration! 

Of  the  perfect  transparency  and  lofty  bearing  of  the 
poetry  of  Mrs.  Unmans,  much  might  be  said  ;  but 
from  the  sketch  already  presented,  the  fact  is  deemed 
inferrable.  In  these  attributes  she  has  not  been  sur- 
passed, if  equalled,  by  any  writer  of  the  loftiest  school. 
None  could  be  more  alive  than  she  was  to  die 
respectability  (so  to  speak)  of  all  that  reason  discovers 
and  religion  reveals  of  the  spiritual  meanings  of  the 
universe  around  us,  in  the  least  as  well  as  the  grandest 
of  its  parts. 

In  introducing  this  volume  to  the  public,  the  writer 
would  say,  that  the  space  allotted  forbids  a  more 
elaborate  notice  of  the  genius  and  fame  of  her  who 
sang, 

"  Thus  let  my  memory  be  with  you,  my  friends  ' 

Thus  ever  think  of  me  ! 
Kindly  and  gently,  but  as  of  one 
For  whom  'tis  well  to  be  fled  and  gone-- 
As  of  a  bird  from  a  chain  unbound, 
As  of  a  wanderer  whose  home  is  found  — 

So  let  it  be  ! " 

He  would  only  add,  that  he  feels  that  in  getting  out 


this  volume,  his  office  is  as  one  who  throws  "  water 
upon  ancient  paintings,  reviving  their  forms  and 
colors,  like  any  sound  or  circumstance  reviving 
images  of  the  past" 


CONTENTS. 

P»ai 

The  Restoration  of  the  Works  of  Art  to  Italy, 10 

Arabella  Stuart, 38 

Cathedral  Hymn, 48 

Edith;  a  Tale  of  the  Woods, 53 

The  Widow  of  Crescentius, 62 

Dartmoor.     A  Pnze  Poem,. 82 

Properzia  Rossi, 95 

Elysium, 100 

The  Death  of  Conradin, 104 

The  King  of  Arragon's  Lament  for  his  Brother, 110 

The  Homes  of  England, 113 

The  Land  of  Dreams, 1 15 

The  Childe's  Destiny, 117 

Coeur  de  Lion  at  the  Bier  of  his  Father, 120 

The  Landing  of  the  Pilgrim  Fathers, 123 

The  Voice  of  Spring, 125 

Roman  Girl's  Song, 128 

Dirge, 130 

The  Coronation  of  Inez  de  Castro, 132 

To  a  Remembered  Picture, 135 

Joan  of  Arc,  in  Rhcims, . . . .  137 

The  Crusader's  War  Song, 140 

The  Vaudois'  Wife, M2 

The  Switzer's  Wife, 145 


(10) 

PAOB. 

Washington's  Statue, 150 

The  Palm  Tree, 151 

The  Traveller's  Evening  Song, 153 

The  Songs  of  our  Fathers, 155 

The  American  Forest  Girl, 157 

Casablanca, 160 

Greek  Funeral  Chant,  or  Myriologue, 162 

Woman  on  the  Field  of  Battle, 166 

The  Festal  Hour, 169 

The  Last  Song  of  Sappho, 173 

Ivan  the  Czar, 175 

The  Dying  Improvisatoire, 178 

The  Hour  of  Prayer, 180 

The  Hebrew  Mother, 181 

The  Graves  of  a  Household, 184 

Tasso  and  his  Sister, 186 

England's  Dead, 188 

The  Traveller  at  the  Source  of  the  Nile, 191 

Hymn  of  the  Traveller's  Household  on  his  Return, 193 

The  Parting  of  Summer, 195 

Hymn  of  the  Vaudois  Mountaineers  in  Times  of  Perse- 
cution,  197 

The  Boon  of  Memory, 199 

^indred  Hearts, 201 

The  Parthenon, 203 

Sister  !  since  I  Met  Thee  Last, 206 

The  Two  Voices, 207 

The  Image  in  Lava, 209 

The  Summer's  Call, 21 1 


(11) 

PAOB 

He  never  Smiled  Again, 213 

Bernardo  del  Carpio, 214 

The  Hour  of  Death, 218 

The  Voice  of  Home  to  the  Prodigal, 220 

Let  her  Depart, 222 

Song  of  Emigration, 223 

The  Trumpet, 225 

Despondency  and  Aspiration, • 226 

To  the  Memory  of  the  Dead, 232 

Mozart's  Requiem, 234 

The  Funeral  Genius ;  an  Ancient  Statue, 236 

The  Graves  of  Martyrs, 238 

The  Ivy  Song, 240 

The  Nightingale's  Death  Song 242 

The  Revellers, 244 

Song  of  a  Guardian  Spirit, 246 

Swiss  Song,  on  the  Anniversary  of  an  Ancient  Battle,  ...248 

The  Diver, 250 

Leave  Me  not  Yet, 252 

The  Wreck,.... 253 

O  Ye  Voices  Gone, 255 

The  Soldier's  Death-Bed, 256 

The  Bird  at  Sea, 257 

The  Deserted  House, 259 

Corinna  at  the  Capitol, 261 

The  Voice  of  the  Wind, 263 

The  Death  Day  of  Korner, 265 

The  Lnst  Wish, 267 

The  Palmer, 269 


(12) 

PAO» 

The  Suliote  Mother, 271 

The  Lost  Pleiad, 273 

Gertrude  ;  or,  Fidelity  till  Death, 274 

Italian  Girl's  Hymn  to  the  Virgin, 276 

The  Adopted  ChUd, 273 

The  Two  Monuments, 230 

Passing  Away, 2S2 

The  Better  Land, 284 

Evening  Song  of  the  Weary, 285 

The  Storm-Painter  in  his  Dungeon, 286 

The  Song  of  Night, 288 

Parting  Words, 290 

If  Thou  hast  crush'd  a  Flower, 291 

Let  us  Depart, 293 

The  Sunbeam, 295 

To  my  own  Portrait, 296 

Ancient  Battle  Song, 298 

A  Parting  Song, 299 

The  Bride  of  the  Green  Isle, 300 

The  Bended  Bow, 302 

Woman  and  Fame, 303 

The  Penitent's  Return, 305 

Dirge  of  a  Child, 307 

The  Silent  Multitude, 308 

The  Stranger  in  Louisiana, 310 

The  Messenger  Bird, 311 

Bring  Flowers, 313 

The  Water  Lily, 314 

Angel  Visits, 316 


(13) 

The  Rock  betide  the  Sea, .....318 

The  Two  Home*, 319 

Sadness  and  Mirth, 321 

The  Bride's  Farewell, 383 

The  Sound  of  the  Sea, 334 

A  Prayer  of  Affection, 325 

The  Antique  Sepulchre, 327 

The  Cambrian  in  America,... ...................... ...329 

No  More, 330 

Last  Rites, 332 

The  Farewell  to  the  Dead, 333 

A  Thought  of  the  Future, 335 

Troubadour  Song, 337 

Erening  Praver  at  a  Girl'i  School, 338 

The  Cross  of  the  Sooth, 340 

The  Charmed  Picture, 342 

The  Aged  Indian, 343 

The  Victor, 345 

The  Dial  of  Flowers, 347 

The  Treasures  of  the  Deep, 348 

Triumphant  Music, 350 

Night  Hymn  at  Sea, 353 

BOSKETS,  DETOTIOXAL  AVD  MKBOBIA&,  ... 353 

1.  The  Sacred  Harp, *t. 

2.  To  a  Family  Bible, «k 

3.  Repose  of  a  Holy  Family, 354 

4.  Picture  of  the  Infant  Christ  with  flnrvt*, 355 

5.  On  a  Remembered  Fictnre  of  Christ. t*. 

6.  The  Children  whom  Jesus  Blest, 35€ 


(14) 

FAGB. 

7.  Mountain  Sanctuaries, 356 

8.  The  Lilies  of  the  Field, 357 

9.  The  Birds  of  the  Air, 358 

10.  The  Raising  of  the  Widow's  Son, ib 

1 1    The  Olive  Tree, 359 

12.  The  Darkness  of  the  Crucifixion, 360 

13.  Places  of  Worship, ib 

14.  Old  Church  in  an  English  Park, 361 

15.  A  Church  in  North  Wales, 362 

16.  Louise  Schepler, ib. 

17.  To  the  Same, 363 

RECORDS  OF  THE  SPRING  OF  1834, 364 

1.  A  Vernal  Thought, ib 

2.  To  the  Sky, ib. 

3.  On  Records  of  Immature  Genius, 365 

4.  On  Watching  the  Flight  of  a  Sky  Lark, 366 

5.  A  Thought  of  the  Sea, ib. 

6.  Distant  Sound  of  the  Sea  at  Evening, 367 

7.  The  River  Clwyd  in  North  Wales, 368 

8.  Orchard  Blossoms, ib. 

9.  To  a  Distant  Scene, 369 

10.  A  Remembrance  of  Grasmere, 370 

11.  Thoughts  connected  with  Trees, ib. 

12.  The  Same, 371 

13   On  Reading  Paul  and  Virginia  in  Childhood, 372 

14.  A  Thought  at  Sunset, ib. 

15.  Images  of  Patriarchal  Life, 373 

16.  Attraction  of  the  East, 374 

17.  To  an  Aged  Friend, ib 


(15) 

PAOB. 

18.  Foliage, 375 

19.  A  Prayer, 376 

20.  Prayer  Continued, il>. 

21.  Memorial  of  a  Conversation, 377 

RECORDS  OF  THE  AUTUMN  OF  1834, 378 

1.  The  Return  to  Poetry, ib. 

2.  To  Silvio  Pellico,  on  Reading  his  "  Pngione, 379 

3.  To  the  Same,  Released ib. 

4.  On  a  Scene  in  the  Dargle, 380 

5.  On  Reading  Coleridge's  Epitaph, 381 

6.  On  the  Datura  Arborea, ib. 

7.  Design  and  Performance, 382 

8.  Hope  of  Future  Communion  with  Nature, 383 

9.  Dreams  of  th    D-.ac, , ib. 

10.  Poetry  of  the  Psalms, 384 

THOUGHTS  DURING  SICKNESS, 385 

1 .  Intellectual  Powers, ib. 

2.  Sickness  like  Night, 386 

3.  On  Retzsch's  Design  of  the  Angel  of  Death, ib. 

4.  Remembrance  of  Nature, 387 

5.  Flight  of  the  Spirit, ' 383 

6.  Flowers, ib 

7.  Recovery, 389 

Sabbath  Sonnet, 390 

A  Poet's  Dying  Hymn, 391 


THK 

RESTORATION 

or  THE 
WORKS   OF  ART   TO  ITALY. 

LAND  of  departed  fame  !  whose  classic  plains 
Have  proudly  echo'd  to  immortal  strains ; 
Whose  hallow'd  soil  hath  given  the  great  and 

brave, 

Daystars  of  life,  a  birth,  place,  and  a  grave  ; 
Home  of  the  Arts  !  where  glory's  faded  smile, 
Sheds  ling'ring  light  o'er  many  a  mould'ring  pile ; 
Proud  wreck  of  vanish'd  power,  of  splendor  fled, 
Majestic  temple  of  the  mighty  dead ! 
Whose  grandeur  yet  contending  with  decay, 
Gleams  through  the  twilight  of  thy  glorious  day  ; 
Though  dimm'd  thy  brightness,  riveted  thy  chain, 
Yet,  fallen  Italy  !  rejoice  again  ! 
Lost,  lovely  realm !  once  more  'tis  thine  to  gaze 
On  the  rich  relics  of  sublimer  days. 

Awake,  ye  Muses  of  Etrurian  shades, 
Or  sacred  Tivoli's  romantic  glades ; 
Wake,  ye  that  slumber  in  the  bowery  gloom 
Where  the  wild  ivy  shadows  Virgil's  tomb  ; 
Or  ye,  whose  voice,  by  Sorga's  lonely  wave, 
S  welFd  the  deep  echoes  of  the  fountain's  cave, 


(20J 

Or  thrill 'd  the  soul  in  Tasso's  numbers  high, 
Those  magic  strains  of  love  and  chivalry  . 
If  yet  by  classic  streams  ye  fondly  rove, 
Haunting  the  myrtle  vale,  the  laurel  grove  ; 
Oh  !  rouse  once  more  the  daring  soul  of  song, 
Seize  with  bold  hand  the  harp,  forgot  so  long, 
And  hail,  with  wonted  pride,  those  works  revered 
Hallow'd  by  time,  by  absence  more  endear'd. 

And    breathe    to    Those   the    strain,   whose 

warrjor-might 

Each  danger  stemm'd,  prevail'd  in  every  fight ; 
Souls  of  unyielding  power,  to  storms  inured, 
Sublimed  by  peril,  and  by  toil  matured. 
Sing  of  that  Leader,  whose  ascendant  mind 
Could  rouse  the  slumbering  spirit  of  mankind  : 
Whose  banners  track'd  the  vanquish'd  Eagle's 

flight 

O'er  many  a  plain,  and  dark  siera's  height ; 
Who  bade  once  more  the  wild,  heroic  lay, 
Record  the  deeds  of  Roncesvalles'  day ; 
Who,  through  each  mountain-pass  of  rock  and 

snow, 

An  Alpine  huntsman  chased  the  fear-struck  foe  : 
Waved  his  proud  standard  to  the  balmy  gales, 
Rich  Languedoc  !  that  fan  thy  glowing  vales, 
And  'midst  those  scenes  renew'd  th'  achieve- 
ments high 
Bequeath'd  to  fame  by  England's  ancestry : 

Yet,    when   the   storm    seem'd    hush'd,    the 

conflict  past, 
One  strife  remain'd  —  the  mightiest  and  the  last! 


(21) 

Nerved  for  the  struggle,  in  that  fateful  hour 
Untamed  Ambition  summon'd  all  his  power  ; 
Vengeance   and   Pride,  to  frenzy  roused,  wore 

there, 

And  the  stern  might  of  resolute  Despair. 
Isle  of  the  free !  'twas  then  thy  champions  stood, 
Breasting  unmoved  the  combat's  wildest  flood  ; 
Sunbeam  of  battle  !  then  thy  spirit  shone, 
Glow'd  in  each  breast,  and  sunk  with  life  alone. 

Oh  hearts  devoted  !  whose  illustrious  doom 
Gave  there  at  once  your  triumph  and  your  tomb, 
Ye,  firm  and  faithful,  in  the  ordeal  tried 
Of  that  dread  strife,  by  Freedom  sanctified  ; 
Shrined,  not  entomb'd,  ye  rest  in  sacred  earth, 
Hallow'd  by  deeds  of  more  than  mortal  worth. 
What  though  to  mark  where  sleeps  heroic  dust, 
No  sculptured  trophy  rise,  or  breathing  bust, 
Yours,  on  the  scene  where  valor's  race  was  run, 
A  prouder  sepulchre  —  the  field  ye  won  ! 
There  every  mead,  each  cabin's  lowly  name, 
Shall  live  a  watchword  blended  with  your  fame ; 
And  well  may  flowers  suffice  those  graves  to 

crown 

That  ask  no  urn  to  blazon  their  renown  ! 
There  shall  the  bard  in  future  ages  tread, 
And  bless  each  wreath  that  blossoms  o'er  the 

dead  ; 

Revere  each  tree  whose  shel'tring  branches  wave 
O'er  the  low  mounds,  the  altars  of  the  brave  ; 
Pause  o'er  each  warrior's  grass-grown  bed,  and 

hear 
In  every  breeze  some  name  to  glory  dear ; 


(r 


(22) 

And  as  the  shades  of  twilight  close  around, 
With  martial  pageants  people  all  the  ground. 
Thither  unborn  descendants  of  the  slain 
Shall  throng  as  pilgrims  to  the  holy  fane, 
While  as  they  trace  each  spot,  whose  records  tell 
Where  fought  their  fathers,  and  prevail'd,  and  fell, 
Warm  in  their  souls  shall  loftiest  feelings  glow, 
Claiming  proud  kindred  with  the  dust  below ! 
And  many  an  age  shall  see  the  brave  repair, 
To  learn  the  Hero's  bright  devotion  there. 

And  well,  Ausonia  !  may  that  field  of  fame, 
From  thee  one  song  of  echoing  triumph  claim. 
Land  of  the  lyre !  'twas  there  th'  avenging  sword, 
Won  the  bright  treasures  to  thy  fanes  restored  ; 
Those    precious    trophies  o'er  thy  realms    thai 

throw 

A  veil  of  radiance,  hiding  half  thy  woe, 
And  bid  the  stranger  for  awhile  forget 
How  deep  thy  fall,  and  deem  thee  glorious  yet. 

Yes,  fair  creations  !  to  perfection  wrought, 
Embodied  visions  of  ascending  thought ! 
Forms  of  sublimity  !  by  Genius  traced 
In  tints  that  vindicate  adoring  taste  ; 
Whose  bright  originals,  to  earth  unknown, 
[jive  in  the  spheres  encircling  glory's  throne  ; 
Models  of  art,  to  deathless  fame  consign'd, 
Stamp'd  with  the  high-born  majesty  of  mind  ; 
Yes,  matchless  works !  your  presence  r hall  restore 
One  beam  of  splendor  to  your  native  shore, 
And  her  sad  scenes  of  lost  renown  illume, 
As  the  bright  sunset  gilds  some  hero's  tomb 


(23) 

Oh!  ne'er,  in  other  climes,  though  many  an 

eye 

Dwelt  on  your  charms,  in  beaming  ecstasy  ; 
Ne'er  was  it  yours  to  bid  the  soul  expand 
With  thoughts  so  mighty,  dreams  so  boldly  grand, 
As  in  that  realm,  where  each  faint  breeze's  moan 
Seems  a  low  dirge  for  glorious  ages  gone  ; 
Where  'midst  the  ruined  shrines  of  many  a  vale, 
E'en  Desolation  tells  a  haughty  tale, 
And  scarce  a  fountain  flows,  a  rock  ascends, 
But  its  proud  name  with  song  eternal  blends  ! 

Yes !    in   those   scenes  where    every  ancient 

stream 

Bids  memory  kindle  o'er  some  lofty  theme  ; 
Where  every  marble  deeds  of  fame  records, 
Each  ruin  tells  of  Earth's  departed  lords  ; 
And  the  deep  tones  of  inspiration  swell 
From  each  wild  olive-wood,  and  Alpine  dell  ; 
Where  heroes  slumber  on  their  battle  plains, 
'Midst  prostrate  altars  and  deserted  fanes, 
And  Fancy  communes,  in  each  lonely  spot, 
With  shades  of  those  who  ne'er  shall  be  forgot ; 
There   was  your  home,  and  there  your  power 

imprest, 

With  tenfold  awe,  the  pilgrims  glowing  breast  ; 
And,  as  the  wind's  deep  thrills  and  mystic  sighs 
Wake  the  wild  harp  to  loftiest  harmonies, 
Thus  at  your  influence,  starting  from  repose, 
Thought,  Feeling,  Fancy,  into  grandeur  rose. 

Fair  Florence  !  queen  of  Arno's  lovely  vale  I 
Justice  and  Truth  indignant  heard  thy  tale, 


(24) 

And  sternly  smiled  in  retribution's  hour, 
To  wrest  thy  treasures  from  the  Spoiler's  power 
Too  long  the  spirits  of  thy  noble  dead 
Mourn'd  o'er  the  domes  they  rear'd  in  ages  fled 
Those  classic  scenes  their  pride  so  richly  graced) 
Temples  of  genius,  palaces  of  taste, 
Too  long,  with  sad  and  desolated  mien, 
Reveal'd  where  Conquest's   lawless   track   had 

been  ; 

Reft  of  each  form  with  brighter  light  imbued, 
Lonely  they  frown'd,  a  desert  solitude. 

Florence  !  th'  Oppressor's  noon  of  pride  is  o'er, 
Rise  in  thy  pomp  again,  and  weep  no  more  ! 

As  one,  who,  starting  at  the  dawn  of  day 
From  dark  illusions,  phantoms  of  dismay, 
With  transport  heighten'd  by  those  ills  of  night, 
Hails  the  rich  glories  of  expanding  light ; 
E'en  thus,  awak'ning  from  thy  dream  of  woe, 
While   heaven's   own   hues  in  radiance  round 

thee  glow. 

With  warmer  ecstacy  'tis  thine  to  trace 
Each  tint  of  beauty,  and  each  line  of  grace  ; 
More  bright,  more  prized,  more  precious,  since 

deplored, 

As  loved,  lost  relics,  ne'er  to  be  restored, 
Thy  grief  as  hopeless  as  the  tear-drop  shed 
By  fond  affection  bending  o'er  the  dead. 

Athens  of  Italy !  once  more  are  thine 
Those  matchless  gems  of  Art's  exhaustless  mine, 
For  thee  bright  Genius  darts  his  living  beam, 
Warm  o'er  thy  shrine  the  tints  of  Glory  stream, 


(25) 

And  forms  august  as  natives  of  the  sky, 
Rise  round  each  fane  in  faultless  majesty, 
So  chastely  perfect,  so  serenely  grand, 
They  seem  creations  of  no  mortal  hand. 

Ye,  at  whose  voice  fair  art,  with  eagle  glance, 
Burst  in  full  splendor  from  her  deathlike  trance ; 
Whose  rallying  call  bade  slumb'ring  nations  wake,. 
And  daring  intellect  his  bondage  break  ; 
Beneath  whose  eye  the  lords  of  song  arose, 
And  snatch'd  the  Tuscan  lyre  from  long  repose. 
And  bade  its  pealing  energies  resound, 
With  power  electric,  through  the  realms  around ; 
Oh  !  high  in  thought,  magnificent  in  soul ! 
Born  to  inspire,  enlighten,  and  control  ; 
Cosmo,  Lorenzo  !  view  your  reign  once  more, 
The  shrine  where  nations  mingle  to  adore  ! 
Again  th'  Enthusiast  there,  with  ardent  gaze, 
Shall  hail  the  mighty  of  departed  days  : 
Those  sovereign  spirits,  whose  commanding  mind 
Seems  in  the  marble's  breathing  mould  enshrined  ; 
Still  with  ascendant  power  the  world  to  awe, 
Still  the  deep  homage  of  the  heart  to  draw  ; 
To  breathe  some  spell  of  holiness  around, 
Bid  all  the  scene  be  consecrated  ground, 
And  from  the  stone,  by  Inspiration  wrought, 
Dart  the  pure  lightnings  of  exalted  thought. 

There  thou,  fair  offspring  of  immortal  Mind  ! 
Love's  radiant  goddess,  idol  of  mankind ! 
Once  the  bright  object  of  Devotion's  vow, 
Shalt  claim  from  taste  a  kindred  worship  now. 
3 


(26) 

Oil  !    who   can   tell   what   beams   of  heavenly 

light, 

Flash'd  o'er  the  sculptor's  intellectual  sight, 
[low  many  a  glimpse,  reveal'd  to  him  alone, 
Made  brighter  beings,  nobler  worlds,  his  own  ; 
lire,  like  some  vision  sent  the  earth  to  bless, 
LJurst  into  life  thy  pomp  of  loveliness  ! 

Young  Genius  there,  while  dwells  his  kind- 
ling eye 

On  forms,  instinct  with  bright  divinity, 
While  new-born  powers,  dilating  in  his  heart, 
Embrace  the  full  magnificence  of  Art ; 
From  scenes,  by  Raphael's  gifted  hand  array'd, 
From  dreams  of  heaven,  by  Angelo  portray'd  ; 
From  each  fair  work  of  Grecian  skill  sublime, 
Seal'd  with  perfection,  "  sanctified  by  time  ;  " 
Shall  catch  a  kindred  glow,  and  proudly  feel 
His  spirit  burn  with  emulative  zeal, 
Buoyant  with  loftier  hopes,  his  soul  shall  rise, 
Imbued  at  once  with  nobler  energies  ; 
O'er  life's  dim  scenes  on  rapid  pinions  soar, 
And  worlds  of  visionary  grace  explore, 
Till  his  bold  hand  give  glory's  day-dream  birth, 
And  with  new  wonders  charm  admiring  earth. 

Venice,  exult  !  and  o'er  thy  moonlight  seas, 
Swell  with  gay  strains  each  Adriatic  breeze  ! 
What  though  long  fled  those  years  of  martial 

fame, 

That  shed  romantic  lustre  o'er  thy  name  ; 
Though  to  the  winds  thy  streamers  idly  play, 
And  the  wild  waves  another  Queen  obey ; 


(27) 

Though  qucnch'd  the  spirit  of  thine  ancient  race, 
And  power  and  freedom  scarce  have  left  a  trace  ; 
Yet  still  shall  Art  her  splendors  round  thee  cast, 
And  gild  the  wreck  of  years  for  ever  past. 
Again  thy  fanes  may  boast  a  Titian's  dyes, 
Whose  clear  soft  brilliance  emulates  thy  skies, 
And  scenes  that  glow  in  coloring's  richest  bloom, 
With  life's  warm  flush  Palladian  halls  illume. 
From  the  rich  dome  again  th'  unrivall'd  steed 
Starts  to  existence,  rushes  into  speed, 
Still  for  Lysippus  claims  the  wreath  of  fame, 
Panting  with  ardor,  vivified  with  flame. 

Proud  Racers  of  the  Sun  !  to  fancy's  thought 
Burning  with  spirit,  from  his  essence  caught, 
No  mortal  birth  ye  seem  —  but  form'd  to  bear 
Heaven's   car  of  triumph   through   the   realms 

of  air  : 

To  range  uncurb'd  the  pathless  fields  of  space, 
The  winds  your  rivals  in  the  glorious  race  ; 
Traverse  empyreal  spheres  with  buoyant  feet, 
Free  as  the  zephyr,  as  the  shot-star  fleet ; 
And  waft  through  worlds  unknown  the  vital  ray, 
The  flame  that  wakes  creations  into  day. 
Creatures  of  fire  and  ether !  wing'd  with  light 
To  track  the  regions  of  the  Infinite  ! 
From  purer  elements  whose  life  was  drawn. 
Sprung    from    the    simbeam,   offspring    of    the 

dawn, 

What  years  on  years,  in  silence  gliding  by; 
Have  spared  those  forms  of  perfect  symmetry  ! 
Moulded  by  Art  to  dignify,  alone, 
Her  own  bright  deity's  resplendent  throne, 


(28) 

Since  first  hei  skill  their  fiery  grace  bestow'd, 
Meet  for  such  lofty  fate,  such  high  abode, 
How  many  a  race,  whose  tales  of  glory  seem 
An  echo's  voice  —  the  music  of  a  dream, 
Whose  records  feebly  from  oblivion  save 
A  few  bright  traces  of  the  wise  and  brave  ; 
How    many    a    state,    whose    pillar'd    strength 

sublime, 

Defied  the  storms  of  war,  the  waves  of  time, 
Towering  o'er  earth  majestic  and  alone, 
Fortress  of  power  —  has  flourish'd  and  is  gone ! 
And  they,  from  clime  to  clime  by  conquest  borne, 
Each  fleeting  triumph  destined  to  adorn, 
They  that  of  powers  and  kingdoms  lost  and 

won, 

Have  seen  the  noontide  and  the  setting  sun, 
Consummate  still  in  every  grace  remain, 
As  o'er  their  heads  had  ages  roll'd  in  vain ! 
Ages,  victorious  in  their  ceaseless  flight, 
O'er  countless  monuments  of  earthly  might ! 
While  she,  from  fair  Byzantium's  lost  domain, 
Who  bore  those  treasures  to  her  ocean-reign, 
'Midst  the  blue  deep,  who  rear'd    her    island- 
throne, 

And  called  th'  infinitude  of  waves  her  own  • 
Venice,  the  proud,  the  Regent  of  the  sea, 
Welcomes  in  chains  the  trophies  of  the  Free  ! 

And    thou,   whose    Eagle's   towering    plum 

unfurl'd, 

Once  cast  its  shadow  o'er  a  vassal  world, 
Eternal  city  !  round  whose  Curule  throne, 
The  lords  of  nations  knelt  in  ages  flown  • 


(29) 

Thou,  whose  Augustan  years  have  left  to  time 
Immortal  records  of  their  glorious  prime  ; 
When  deathless  bards,  thine  olive-shades  among, 
S well'd  the  high  raptures  of  heroic  song  ; 
Fair,  fallen  Empress  !  raise  thy  languid  head 
From  the  cold  altars  of  th'  illustrious  dead, 
And  once  again,  with  fond  delight  survey, 
The  proud  memorials  of  thy  noblest  day. 

Lo  !  where  thy  sons,  oh  Rome  !  a  godlike  train, 
In  imaged  majesty  return  again  ! 
Bards,    chieftains,  monarchs,  tower  with  mien 

august 

O'er  scenes  that  shrine  their  venerable  dust. 
Those  forms,  those  features,  luminous  with  soul, 
Still  o'er  thy  children  seem  to  claim  control  ; 
With  awful  grace  arrest  the  pilgrim's  glance, 
Bind  his  rapt  soul  in  elevating  trance, 
And  bid  the  past,  to  fancy's  ardent  eyes, 
From  time's  dim  sepulchre  in  glory  rise. 

Souls  of  the  lofty  !  whose  undying  names, 
Rouse  the  young  bosom  still  to  noblest  aims  ; 
Oh  !  with  your  images  could  fate  restore 
Your  own  high  spirit  to  your  sons  once  more  ; 
Patriots  and  heroes  !  could  those  flames  return 
That  bade  your  hearts  with  freedom's  ardors 

burn, 

Then  from  the  sacred  ashes  of  the  first, 
Might  a  new  Rome  in  phoenix  grandeur  burst ! 
With  one  bright  glance  dispel  th'  horizonrs  gloom, 
With  one  loud  call  wake  empire  from  the  tomb  ; 
3* 


(30) 

Bind  round  her  brows  her  own  triumphal  crown, 
Lift  her  dread  aegis  with  majestic  frown, 
Unchain  her  eagle's  wing,  and  guide  his  flight 
To  bathe  his  plumage  in  the  fount  of  light. 

Vain  dream  !  degraded  Rome  !  thy  noon  is  o'er , 
Once  lost,  thy  spirit  shall  revive  no  more. 
It  sleeps  with  those,  the  sons  of  other  days, 
Who  fix'd  on  thee  the  world's  adoring  gaze  ; 
Those,  blest  to  live,  while  yet  thy  star  was  high, 
More    blest,  ere   darkness    quench'd    its    beam, 
to  die  ! 

Yet,  though  thy  faithless  tutelary  powers 
Have  fled  thy  shrines,  left  desolate  thy  towers, 
Still,  still  to  thee  shall  nations  bend  their  way, 
Revered  in  ruin,  sovereign  in  decay ! 
Oh  !    what  can  realms,  in  fame's  full    zenith, 

boast, 

To  match  the  relics  of  thy  splendor  lost ! 
By  Tiber's  waves,  on  each  illustrious  hill, 
Genius  and  Taste  shall  love  to  wander  still, 
For  there  has  Art  survived  an  empire's  doom, 
And   rear'd   her   throne  o'er  Latium's  trophied 

tomb  ; 

She  from  the  dust  recalls  the  brave  and  free, 
Peopling  each  scene  with  beings  worthy  thee ! 

Oh !    ne'er   again   may   War,  with    lightning 

stroke, 

Rend  its  last  honors  from  the  shatter'd  oak  ! 
Long  be  those  works,  revered  by  ages,  thine, 
To  lend  one  triumph  to  thy  dim  decline  ! 


(31  ) 

Bright  with  stern  beauty,  breathing  wrathful 

fire, 

hi  all  the  grandeur  of  celestial  ire, 
Once  more  thine  own,  th'  immortal  Archer's  form 
Sheds   radiance    round,  with  more  than  Being 

warm  ! 

i Oh  !  who  could  view,  nor  deem  that  perfect  frame, 
A  living  temple  of  ethereal  flame  ? 

Lord  of  the  daystar !  how  may  words  portray 
Of  thy  chaste  glory  one  reflected  ray  ? 
Whate'er  the  soul  could  dream,  the  hand  could 

trace, 

Of  regal  dignity  and  heavenly  grace  ; 
Each  purer  effluence  of  the  fair  and  bright, 
Whose  fitful  gleams  have  broke  on  mortal  sight : 
Each  bold  idea,  borrow'd  from  the  sky, 
To  vest  th'  embodied  form  of  Deity  ; 
All,  all  in  thee  ennobled  and  refined, 
Breathe  and  enchant,  transcendent] y  combined  ! 
Son  of  Elysium  !  years  and  ages  gone 
Have  bow'd  in  speechless  homage  at  thy  thronej 
And  days  unborn,  and  nations  yet  to  be, 
Shall  gaze,  absorb'd  in  ecstacy,  on  thee ! 

And  thou,  triumphant  wreck,  e'en  yet  sublime 
Disputed  trophy,  claimed  by  Art  and  Time  ; 
Hail  to  that  scene  again,  where  genius  caught 
From  thee  its  fervors  of  diviner  thought ! 
Where  He,  th'  inspired  One,  whose  gigantic  mind 
Lived  in  some  sphere,  to  him  alone  assign'd  ; 
Who  from  the  past,  the  future,  and  th'  unseen, 
Could  call  up  forms  of  more  than  earthly  mien  : 


(32) 

Unrivalled  Angelo  on  thee  would  gaze, 
Till  his  full  soul  imbibed  perfection's  blaze  ! 
And  who  but  he,  that  Prince  of  Art,  might  dare 
Thy  sovereign  greatness  view  without  despair  ? 
Emblem  of  Rome  !  from  power's  meridian  hurlM, 
Yet  claiming  still  the  homage  of  the  world. 

What  hadst  thou  been,  ere  barb'rous  hands 

defaced 

The  work  of  wonder,  idolized  by  taste  ? 
Oh  !  worthy  still  of  some  divine  abode, 
Mould  of  a  Conqueror  !  ruin  of  a  God  ! 
Still,  like  some  broken  gem,  whose  quenchless 

oeam 
From    each    bright    fragment    pours    its    vital 

stream, 

'Tis  thine,  by  fate  unconquer'd  to  dispense 
From  every  part  some  ray  of  excellence ! 
E'en  yet,  inform'd  with  essence  from  on  high, 
Thine  is  no  trace  of  frail  mortality  ! 
Within  that  frame  a  purer  being  glows, 
Through  viewless  veins  a  brighter  current  flows ; 
Fill'd  with  immortal  life  each  muscle  swells, 
In  every  line  supernal  grandeur  dwells. 

Consummate  work  !  the  noblest  and  the  last 
Of  Grecian  Freedom,  ere  her  reign  was  past : 
Nurse  of  the  mighty,  she,  while  ling'ring  still, 
Her  mantle  flow'd  o'er  many  a  classic  hill, 
Ere  yet  her  voice  its  parting  accents  breathed, 
A  hero's  image  to  the  world  bequeathed ; 
Enshrined  in  thee  th'  imperishable  ray 
Of  high-soul'd  Genius,  foster'd  by  her  sway,  - 


(33) 

bade  thee  teach  to  ages  yet  unborn, 
What  lofty  dreams  were  hers  —  who  never  shall 
return. 

And  mark  yon  group,  tranxsfix'd  with  many 

a  jthroe, 

Soal'd  with  the  image  of  eternal  woe  : 
With  fearful  truth,  terrific  power,  exprest, 
Thy  pangs,  Laocoon,  agonize  the  breast, 
And  the  stern  combat  picture  to  mankind 
Of  suffering  nature  and  enduring  mind. 
Oh,  mighty  conflict !  though  his  pains  intense 
Distend  each  nerve,  and  dart  through  every  sense ; 
Though  fix'd  on  him,  his  children's  suppliant  eyes 
Implore  the  aid  avenging  fate  denies  ; 
Though  with  the  giant  snake  in  fruitless  strife, 
Heaves  every  muscle  with  convulsive  life, 
And  in  each  limb  existence  writhes,  enroll 'd, 
'Midst  the  dread  circles  of  the  venom'd  fold  ; 
Yet  the  strong  spirit  lives  —  and  not  a  cry 
Shall  own  the  might  of  Nature's  agony ! 
That  furrow'd  brow  unconquer'd  soul  reveals, 
That  patient  eye  to  angry  heaven  appeals, 
That  struggling  bosom  concentrates  its  breath-, 
Nor  yields  one  moan  to  torture  or  to  death. 

Sublimest  triumph  of  intrepid  Art ! 
With  speechless  horror  to  congeal  the  heart, 
To  freeze  each  pulse,  and  dart  through  every 

vein, 

Cold  thrills  of  fear,  keen  sympathies  of  pain  ; 
Yet  teach  the  spirit  how  its  lofty  power 
May  brave  the  pangs  of  fate's  severest  hour. 


Turn  from  such  conflicts,  and  enraptured  gaz€ 
On  scenes  where  Painting  all  her  skill  displays: 
Landscapes,  by  coloring  dress'd  in  richer  dyes, 
More  niellow'd  sunshine,  more  unclouded  skies, 
Of  dreams  of  bliss,  to  dying  martyrs  given, 
Descending  seraphs,  robed  in  beams  of  heaven. 

Oh  !  sovereign  Masters  of  the  Pencil's  might. 
Its  depths  of  shadow,  and  its  blaze  of  light  ; 
Ye,  whose  bold  thought  disdaining  every  bound; 
Explored  the  worlds  above,  below,  around, 
Children  of  Italy  !  who  stand  alone 
And  unapproach'd,  'midst  regions  all  your  own  ; 
What  scenes,  what  beings  bless'd  your-  favor'd 

sight, 

Severely  grand,  unutterably  bright  ! 
Triumphant  spirits  !  your  exulting  eye 
Could  meet  the  noontide  of  eternity, 
And  gaze  untired,  undaunted,  uncontrolled, 
On  all  that  Fancy  trembles  to  behold. 

Bright  on  your  view  such  forms  their  splenUci 

shed, 

As  burst  on  prophet-bards  in  ages  fled  : 
Forms  that  to  trace  no  hand  but  yours  rnighl 

dare, 

Darkly  sublime  or  exquisitely  fair  ; 
These  o'er  the  walls  your  magic  skill  array  ?d, 
Glow  in  rich  sunshine,  gleam  through  melting 

shade, 

Float  in  light  grace,  in  awful  greatness  to\ver, 
And    breathe    and   move,  the  records   of  yoiu 

power. 


(35) 

Inspired  of  Heaven  !  what  heightened  power  ye 

cast 

O'er  all  the  deathless  trophies  of  the  past ! 
Round  many  a  marble  fane  and  classic  dome, 
Asserting  still  the  majesty  of  Rome  ; 
Round  many  a  work  that  bids  the  world  believe 
What  Grecian  Art  could  image  and  achieve  ; 
Again,  creative  minds,  your  visions  throw 
Life's  chasteii'd  warmth,  and  Beauty's  mellowest 

glow, 

And  when  the  Morn's  bright  beams  and  mant- 
ling dyes, 

Pour  the  rich  lustre  of  Ausonian  skies, 
Or  evening  suns  illume,  with  purple  smile, 
The  Parian  altar,  and  the  pillar'd  aisle, 
Then,  as  the  full,  or  soften'd  radiance  falls, 
On  angel-groups  that  hover  o'er  the  Avails, 
Well  may  those  Temples,  where  your  hand  has 

shed 

Light  o'er  the  tomb,  existence  round  the  dead, 
Seem  like  some  world,  so  perfect  and  so  fair, 
That  nought   of  earth  should  find  admittance 

there, 
Some    sphere    where    beings,  to  mankind    un-' 

known, 
Dwell  in  the  brightness  of  their  pomp  alone  ! 

Hence,  ye  vain  fictions !  fancy's  erring  theme! 
Gods  of  illusion  !  phantoms  of  a  dream  ! 
Frail,  powerless  idols  of  departed  time, 
Fables  of  song,  delusive,  though  sublime  ! 
To  loftier  tasks  has  Roman  Art  assign'd 
Her  matchless  pencil,  and  her  mighty  mind  ! 


(36) 

From  brighter  streams  her  vast  ideas  flow'd, 

With  purer  fire  her  ardent  spirit  glow'd. 

To  her  'twas  given  in  fancy  to  explore 

The  land  of  miracles,  the  holiest  shore  ; 

That  realm  where  first  the  light  of  life  was  sent, 

The  loved,  the  punish'd  of  th'  Omnipotent  ! 

O'er  Judah's  hills  her  thoughts  inspired  would 

stray, 

Through  Jordan's  valleys  trace  their  lonely  way ; 
By  Siloa's  brook,  or  Almotana's  deep, 
Chain'd  in  dead  silence  and  unbroken  sleep  ; 
Scenes,  whose  cleft  rocks  and  blasted  deserts  tell, 
Where  pass'd  th'  Eternal,  where  his  anger  fell  ! 
Where  oft  his  voice  the  words  of  fate  reveal'd. 
Swell'd  in  the  whirlwind,  in  the  thunder  peal'd, 
Or  heard  by  prophets  in  some  palmy  vale, 
Breathed  "still  small"  whispers  on  the  midnight 

gale. 

There  dwelt  her  spirit — there  her  hand  portray'd, 
'Midst  the  lone  wilderness  or  cedar-shade, 
Ethereal  forms  with  awful  missions  fraught, 
Or  patriarch-seers  absorb 'd  in  sacred  thought, 
Bards,  in  high  converse  with  the  world  of  rest, 
Saints  of  the  earth,  and  spirits  of  the  blest. 
But  chief  to  Him,  the  Conqueror,  of  the  grave, 
Who  lived  to  guide  us,  and  who  died  to  save  ; 
Him,  at  whose  glance  the  powers  of  evil  fled, 
And  soul  return'd  to  animate  the  dead  ; 
Whom  the  waves  own'd  —  and  sunk  beneath 

his  eye, 

Awed  by  one  accent  of  Divinity  ; 
To  Him  she  gave  her  meditative  hours, 
Hallow'd  her  thoughts,  and  sanctified  her  powers 


(37) 

O'er  her  bright  scenes  sublime  repose  she  throw, 
As  all  around  the  Godhead's  presence  knew, 
And  robed  the  Holy  One's  benignant  mien 
In  beaming  mercy,  majesty  serene. 

Oh !  mark  where  Raphael's  pure  and  perfect 

line 

Portrays  that  form  ineffably  divine  ! 
Where  with  transcendent  skill  his  hand  has  shed 
Diffusive  sunbeams  round  the  Saviour's  head  ; 
Each  heaven-illumined  lineament  imbued 
With  all  the  fullness  of  beautitude, 
And  traced  the  sainted  group,  whose  mortal  sight 
Sinks  overpower'd  by  that  excess  of  light ! 

Gaze  on  that  scene,  and  own  the  might  of  Art, 
By  truth  inspired  to  elevate  the  heart, 
To  bid  the  soul  exultingly  possess, 
Of  all  her  powers,  a  heighten'd  consciousness  ; 
And  strong  in  hope,  anticipate  the  day, 
The  last  of  life,  the  first  of  freedom's  ray  ; 
To  realize,  in  some  unclouded  sphere,  , 

Those  pictured  glories  feebly  imaged  here  ! 
Dim,  cold  reflections  from  her  native  sky, 
Faint   effluence    of   "  the  Day-spring  from  on 
high  !  » 


(38) 


ARABELLA  STUART. 

I. 

'TWAS  b  it  a  dream !  —  I  saw  the  stag  leap  free. 

Under    the    boughs   where    early  birds  were 

singing, 
I  stood,  o'ershadow'd  by  the  greenwood  tree, 

And  heard,  it  seem'd,  a  sudden  bugle  ringing 
Far  through  a  royal  forest ;  then  the  fawn 
Shot,  like  a  gleam  of  light,  from  grassy  lawn 
To  secret  covert ;  and  the  smooth  turf  shook, 
And  lilies  quiver'd  by  the  glade's  lone  brook, 
And  young  leaves  trembled,  as,  in  fleet  career 
A  princely  band,  with  horn,  and  hound,  and  spear; 
Like  a  rich  masque  swept  forth.    I  saw  the  dance 
Of  their  white  plumes,  that  bore  a  silvery  glance 
Into  the  deep  wood's  heart  ;  and  all  pass'd  by. 
Save  one  —  I  met  the  smile  of  one  clear  eye, 
Flashing  out  joy  to  mine. — Yes,  thou  wert  there, 
Seymour !  a  soft  wind  blew  the  clustering  hair 
Back  from  thy  gallant  brow,  as  thou  didst  rein 
Thy  courser,  turning  from  that  gorgeous  train, 
And  fling,  methought,  thy  hunting-spear  away ! 
And,  lightly  graceful  in  thy  green  array, 
Bound  to  my  side ;  and  we,  that  met  and  parted, 

Ever  in  dread  of  some  dark  watchful  power, 
Won  back  to  childhood's  trust,  and,   fearless- 
hearted, 

Blent  the  glad  fulness  of  our  thoughts  that 
hour, 


E'en  like  the  mingling  of  sweet  streams,  benea'h 
Dim  woven  leaves,  and  'midst  the  floating  breaih 
Of  hidden  forest  flowers. 

II. 

'Tis  past !  —  I  wake, 
A  captive,  and  alone,  and  far  from  thee, 
My  love  and  friend  !    Yet,  fostering  for  thy  sake, 

A  quenchless  hope  of  happiness  to  be  ; 
And  feeling  still  my  woman's  spirit  strong 
In  the  deep  faith  which  lifts  from  earthly  wrong, 
A  heavenward  glance.    I  know,  I  know  our  love 
Shall  yet  call  gentle  angels  from  above, 
By  its  undying  fervor  ;  and  prevail, 
Sending  a  breath,  as  of  the  spring's  first  gale, 
Through  hearts  now  cold ;  and,  raising  its  bright 

face, 

With  a  free  gush  of  sunny  tears  erase 
The  characters  of  anguish  ;  in  this  trust, 
I  bear,  I  strive,  I  bow  not  to  the  dust, 
That  I  may  bring  thee  back  no  faded  form, 
No  bosom  chill'd  and  blighted  by  the  storm, 
But  all  my  youth's  first  treasures,  when  we  meet, 
Making  past  sorrow,  by  communion,  swt  et. 

III. 

And  thou  too  art  in  bonds?  —  yet  droop  thou  not, 
Oh,  my  beloved  !  —  there  is  one  hopeless  lot, 
But  one,  and  that  not  ours.     Be  ide  the  dead 
There  sits  the  grief  that  mantle,-  up  its  head, 
Loathing  the  laughter  and  proud  pomp  of  light, 
When  darkness,  from  the  vainly-doting  sight, 


.    (40) 

Covers  its  beautiful  !     If  thou  \vert  gone 

To    the    grave's    bosom,    with    thy    radiant 

brow, — 

if  thy  deep-thrilling  voice,  with  that  low  tone 
Of  earnest  tenderness,  which  now,  ev'n  now, 
Seems   floating    through   my  soul,  were  music 

taken, 

For  ever  from  this  world  !  — oh  !  thus  forsaken, 
Could   I   bear   on  ?  —  thou   liv'st,    thou    liv'st, 

thou'rt  mine  ! 
With    this    glad  thought  I  make  my  heart  a 

shrine, 
And  by  the  lamp  which  quenchless  there  shall 

burn, 
Sit,  a  lone  watcher  for  the  day's  return. 

IV. 

And  lo  !  the  joy  that  cometh  with  the  morning, 

Brightly  victorious  o'er  the  hours  of  care  ! 
I  have  not  watch'd  in  vain,  serenely  scorning 

The  wild  and  busy  whispers  of  despair  ! 
Thou  hast  sent  tidings,  as  of  heaven.  —  I  wait 

The  hour,  the  sign,  for  blessed  flight  to  thee. 
Oh  !  for  the  skylark's  wing  that  seeks  its  mate 

As  a  star  shoots  !  — but  on  the  breezy  sea 
\\  e  shall  meet  soon. — To  think  of  such  an  hour  ! 

Will  not  my  heart,  o'erburden'd  by  its  bliss, 
Faint  and  give  way  within  me,  as  a  flower 

Borne  down  and  perishing  by  noontide's  kiss? 
Yet  shall  I  fear  that  lot  ?  —  the  perfect  rest, 
The  full  deep  joy  of  dying  on  thy  breast, 
After  long-suffering  won  ?     So  rich  a  close 
Too  seldom  crowns  with  peace  affection's  woes, 


(  41  ) 

V. 

Sunset!  —  I  tell  each  moment  —  from  the  skies 

The  last  red  splendor  floats  along  my  wall, 
Like  a  king's  banner  !  —  Now  it  melts,  it  dies  ! 
1  see  one  star  —  I  hear!  —  'twas  not  the  call, 
Tii'  expected  voice  ;  my  quick  heart  throbb'd 

too  soon. 

I  must  keep  vigil  till  yon  rising  moon 
Shower  down  less  golden  light.     Beneath  her 

beam 

Through  my  lone  lattice  pour'd,  I  sit  and  dream 
Of  summer  lands  afar,  where  holy  love, 
Under  the  vine,  or  in  the  citron-grove, 
May  breathe  from  terror. 

Now  the  n  ght  grows  deep, 
And  silent  as  its  clouds,  and  fn  i  of  sleep. 
I    hear   my  veins  beat. — Haik !  a  bell's  slow 

chime ! 
My   heart   strikes  with  .it.  —  Yet    again  —  'tis 

time  ! 

A  step  !  —  a  voice  !  —  01  but  a  rising  breeze  ? 
Hark  ! — haste  !  —  I  come,  to  meet  thee  on  the 

seas. 

VI. 

Now  never  more,  oh  !  never,  in  the  worth 
Of  its  pure  cause,  let  sorrowing  love  on  earth 
Trust  fondly — never  more!— the  hope  is  crush'd 
That  lit  my  life,  the  voice  within  me  hush'd 
That  spoke  sweet  oracles  ;  and  I  return 
To  lay  my  youth,  as  in  a  burial-urn, 
Where  sunshine  may  not  find  it.  —  All  is  lost ! 
No  tempest  met  our  barks  —  no  billow  toss'd : 
.4* 


(42) 

Yet  were  they  sever'd,  ev'n  as  we  must  be, 
That  so  have  loved,  so  striven  our  hearts  to  free 
From  their  close-coiling  fate !  In  vain !  —  in  vain ! 
The  dark  links  meet,  and  clasp  themselves  again, 
And  press  out  life.  —  Upon  the  deck  I  stood, 
And  a  white  sail  came  gliding  o'er  the  flood, 
Like  some  proud  bird  of  ocean  ;  then  mine  ey« 
Strain'd  out,  one  moment  earlier  to  descry 
The  form  it  ached  for,  and  the  bark's  career 
Seem'd  slow  to  that  fond  yearning.    It  drew  near, 
Fraught  with  our  foes !  — What  boots  it  to  recall 
The  strife,  the  tears  ?     Once  more  a  prison-wall 
Shuts  the  green  hills  and  woodlands  from  my 

sight, 

And  joyous  glance  of  waters  to  the  light, 
And  thee,  my  Seymour,  thee  ! 

I  will  not  sink  ! 

Thou,  thou  hast  rent  the  heavy  chain  that 

bound  thee  ; 
And  this  shall  be  my  strength  —  the  joy  to  think 

That  thou  may'st  wander  with  heaven's  breath 

around  thee  ; 

And  all  the  laughing  sky !    This  thought  shall  yet 
Shine  o'er  my  heart,  a  radiant  amulet, 
Guarding  it  from  despair.    Thy  bonds  are  brokei  i , 
And  unto  me,  I  know,  thy  true  love's  token 
Shall  one  day  be  deliverance,  though  the  years 
Lie  dim  between,  o'erhung  with  mists  of  tears. 

VIL 

My  friend,  my  friend !  where  art  thou  ?     Day 

by  day, 
Gliding,  like  some  dark  mournful  stream,  away. 


My  silent  youth  flows  from  me.     Spring,  the 

while, 

Comes  and  rains  beauty  on  the  kindling  boughs 

Round  hall  and  hamlet ;  Summer,  with  her  smile 

Fills  the  green  forest ;  young  hearts  breat  10 

their  vows  ; 

Brothers,  long  parted,  meet  ;  fair  children  rise 
Round  the  glad  board :  Hope  laughs  from  loving 

eyes  : 

All  this  is  in  the  world !  —  These  joys  lie  sown, 
The  dew  of  every  path  —  On  one  alone 
Their  freshness  may  not  fall  —  the  stricken  deer, 
Dying  of  thirst  with  all  the  waters  near. 

VIII. 

Y"e  are  from  dingle  and  fresh  glade,  ye  flowers  ! 

By  some  kind  hand  to  cheer  my  dungeon  sent ; 

O'er  you  the  oak  shed  down  the  summer  showers, 

And  the  lark's  nest  was  where  your  bright  cups 

bent, 

Quivering  to  breeze  and  rain  drop,  like  the  sheen 
Of  twilight  stars.     On  you  Heaven's  eye  hath 

been, 

Through  the  leaves,  pouring  its  dark  sultry  blue 
Into  your  glowing  hearts ;  the  bee  to  you 
Hath  murmur'd,  and  the  rill.  —  My  soul  grows 

faint 
With  passionate  yearning,  as  its  quick  dreams 

paint 
Your  haunts  by  dell  and  stream,  —  the  green, 

the  free, 
The  full  of  all   sweet   sound,  —  the  shut  from 

me ! 


(44) 

IX. 

There  went  a  swift  bird  singing  past  my  cell  — 
O  Love  and  Freedom  !  ye  are  lovely  things ! 
With  you  the  peasant  on  the  hills  may  dwell, 

And  by  the  streams  ;  but  I — the  blood  of  kings, 
A  proud,  unmingling  river,  through  my  veins 
Flows  in  lone  brightness,  —  and  its  gifts    are 

chains  ! 

Kings  !  —  I  had  silent  visions  of  deep  bliss, 
Leaving  their  thrones  far  distant,  and  for  this 
I  am  cast  under  their  triumphal  car, 
An  insect  to  be  crash 'd.  —  Oh  !  Heaven  is  fair, 
Earth  pitiless  ! 

Dost  thou  forget  me,  Seymour  ?     I  am  proved 
So  long,  so  sternly  !  Seymour,  my  beloved  ! 
There  are  such  tales  of  holy  marvels  done 
By  strong  affection,  of  deliverance  won 
Through  its  prevailing  power  !    Are  these  things 

told 

Till  the  young  weep  with  rapture,  and  the  old 
Wonder,  yet  dare  not  doubt,  —  and  thou,  oh  ! 

thou, 

Dost  thou  forget  me  in  my  hope's  decay  ?  — 
Thou  canst   not !  —  through  the  silent   night, 

ev'n  now, 

I,  that  need  prayer  so  much,  awake  and  pray 
Still  first  for  thee.  —  Oh  !  gentle,  gentle  friend  ! 
Ho\v  shall  I  bear  this  anguish  to  the  end  ? 

Aid  ! — comes  there  yet  no  aid? — the  voice  of 

blood 
Passes  Heaven's  gate,  ev'n  ere  the  crimson  flood 


(  45  ) 

Sinks  through  the  greensward!  —  is  there  not  a 

cry 

From  the  wrung  heart,  of  power,  through  agony, 
To  pierce  the  clouds?     Hear,  Mercy  !  hear  me  ! 

None 

That  bleed  and  weep  beneath  the  smiling  sun 
Have    heavier   cause! — yet   hear! — my  soul 

grows  dark  ; 

Who  hears  the  last  shriek  from  the  sinking  bark, 
On  the  mid  seas,  and  with  the  storm  alone, 
And  bearing  to  th'  abyss,  unseen,  unknoAvn, 
Its  freight  of  human  hearts  ?  —  th'  o'ermastering 

wave ! 
Who  shall  tell  how  it  rush'd  — and  none  to  save ' 

Thou  hast  forsaken  me  !     I  feel,  I  know, 
There  would  be  rescue  if  this  were  not  so. 
Thou'rt  at  the  chase,  thou'rt  at  the  festive  board, 
Thou'rt  where  the  red  wine  free  and  high  is 

pour'd, 

Thou'rt  where  the  dancers  meet !  —  a  magic  glass 
I  set  within  my  soul,  and  proud  shapes  pass, 
Flushing  it  o'er  with  pomp    from   bower   and 

hall ;  — 

1  see  one  shadow,  stateliest  there  of  all.  — 
Thine  !  — What  dost  thou  amidst  the  bright  ami 

-    fair, 

Whispering  light  words,  and  mocking  my  despair  I 
It  is  not  well  of  thee  !  —  my  love  was  more 
Than  fiery  song  may  breathe,  deep  thought  ex- 
plore, 

And  there  thou  smilest.  while  my  heart  is  dying. 
With  all  its  blighted  hopes  around  it  lying  ; 


(46) 

Ev'n  thon,  on  whom  they  hung  their  last  green 

leaf — 
Yet  smile,  smile  on!  too  bright  art  thou  for  grief! 

Death  !  —  what,  is  death  a  lock'd  and  treasured 

thing, 

Guarded  by  swords  of  fire  ?  a  hidden  spring, 
A  fabled  fruit,  that  I  should  thus  endure, 
As  if  the  world  within  me  held  no  cure  ? 
Wherefore    not   spread   free    wings  —  Heaven, 

Heaven  !   control 
These  thoughts  —  they  rush  —  I  look  into  my 

soul 

As  down  a  gulf,  and  tremble  at  th'  array 
Of  fierce  forms  crowding  it !     Give  strength  to 

pray, 
So  shall  their  dark  host  pass. 

The  storm  is  still'd, 
Father  in  Heaven  !     Thou,  only  thou,  canst 

sound, 
The  hearts  great  deep,  with  floods  of  anguish 

fill'd, 

For  human  line  too  fearfully  profound. 
Therefore,  forgive,  my  Father !  if  Thy  child, 
Rock'd  on  its  heaving  darkness,  hath  grown  wild 
And  sinn'd  in  her  despair !     It  well  may  be, 
That  Thou  wouldst  lead  my  spirit  back  to  Thee, 
By  tl.e  crush'd  hope  too  long  on  this  world  pour'd, 
The  stricken  love  which  hath  perchance  adored 
A  mortal  in  Thy  place  !     Now  let  me  strive 
With  thy  strong  arm  no  more !    Forgive,  forgive ' 
Take  me  to  peace  ! 


(47) 

And  peace  at  last  is  nigh. 
A  sign  is  on  my  brow,  a  token  sent 
Th'  o'erwearied  dust,  from  home  ;    no  breezo 

flits  by, 
But  calls  me  with  a  strange  sweet  whisper, 

blent 
Of  many  mysteries. 

Hark  !  the  warning  tone 
Deepens  —  its  word  is  DEATH.     Alone,  alone, 
And  sad  in  youth,  but  chasten'd,  I  depart, 
Bowing  to  heaven.    Yet,  yet  my  woman's  heart 
Shall  wake  a  spirit  and  a  power  to  bless, 
Ev'n  in  this  o'ershadowing  fearfulness, 
Thee,  its  first  love  !  —  oh  !  tender  still,  and  true ! 
Be  it  forgotten  if  mine  anguish  threw 
Drops  from  its  bitter  fountain  on  thy  name, 
Though  but  a  moment. 

Now,  with  fainting  frame, 
With  soul  just  lingering  on  the  flight  begun, 
To  bind  for  thee  its  last  dim  thoughts  in  one, 
I  bless  thee  !     Peace  be  on  thy  noble  head, 
Years  of  bright  fame  when  I  am  with  the  dead ! 
I  bid  this  prayer  survive  me,  and  retain 
Its  might,  again  to  bless  thee,  and  again ! 
Thou  hast  been  gather'd  into  my  dark  fate 
Too  much  ;  too  long,  for  my  sake,  desolate 
Hath  been  thine  exiled  youth  ;  but  now  takfl 

back, 

From  dying  hands  thy  freedom,  and  retrack 
(After  a  few  kind  tears  for  her  whose  days 
Went  out  in  dreams  of  thee)  the  sunny  ways 


(48) 

Of  hope,  and  find  thou  happiness.     Yet  send, 
Ev'n  then,  in  silent  hours,  a  thought,  dear  friend! 
Down  to  my  voiceless  chamber  ;  for  thy  love 
Hath  been  to  me  all  gifts  of  earth  above, 
Though  bought  with  burning  tears !     It  is  the 

sting 

Uf  death  to  leave  that  vainly-precious  tiling 
In  this  cold  world !     What  were  it  then,  if  thou, 
With  thy  fond  eyes,  wert  gazing  on  me  now  ? 
Too  keen  a  pang ! — Farewell !  and  yet  once  more 
Farewell — the  passion  of  long  years  I  pour 
Into  that  word  :  thou  hear'st  not, — but  the  woe 
And  fervor  of  its  tones  may  one  day  flow 
To  thy  heart's  holy  place  ;  there  let  them  dwell — 
We  shall  o'ersweep  the  grave  to  meet — Farewell ' 


CATHEDRAL  HYMN. 

A  DIM  and  mighty  minster  of  old  time ! 

A  temple  shadowy  with  remembrances 

Of  the  majestic  past ! — the  very  light 

Streams  with  a  coloring  of  heroic  days 

In  every  ray,  which  leads  through  arch  and  aisle 

A  path  of  dreamy  lustre,  wandering  back 

To  other  years ; — and  the  rich  fretted  roof, 

And  the  wrought  coronals  of  summer  leaves, 

Ivy  and  vine,  and  many  a  sculptured  rose — 

The.  tenderest  image  of  mortality — 

Binding  the  slender  columns,  whose  light  shafts 

Cluster  like  stems  in  corn-sheaves — all  these  thingi 


(49) 

Tell  of  a  race  that  nobly,  fearlessly, 

On  their  heart's  worship  pour'd  a  wealth  of  love  I 

Honor  be  with  the  dead ! — The  people  kneel 

Under  the  helms  of  antique  chivalry, 

And  in  the  crimson  gloom  from  banners  thrown, 

And  "'midst    the  forms,  in  pale    proud   slumber 

carved, 

Of  warriors  on  their  tombs. — The  people  kneel 
Where  mail-clad  chiefs  have  knelt ;  where  jew- 

ell'd  crowns 

On  the  flush'd  brows  of  conquerors  have  been  set ; 
Where  the  high  anthems  of  old  victories 
Have  made  the  dust  give  echoes. — Hence,  vain 

thoughts ! 

Memories  of  power  and  pride,  which,  long  ago 
Like  dim  processions  of  a  dream,  have  sunk 
In  twilight  depths  away. — Return,  my  soul ! 
The  cross  recalls  thee. — Lo  !  the  blessed  cross ! 
High  o'er  the  banners  and  the  crests  of  earth, 
Fix'd  in  his  meek  and  still  supremacy ! 
And  lo  !  the  throng  of  beating  human  hearts, 
With  all  their  secret  scrolls  of  buried  grief, 
All  their  full  treasures  of  immortal  hope, 
Gather'd   before    their  God  ! — Hark  !    how    the 

flood 

Of  the  rich  organ  harmony  bears  up 
Their   voice    on   its    high   waves  ! — a    mighty 

burst  ! 

A  forest-sounding  music  ! — every  tone 
Which  the  blasts  rail  forth  with  their  harping 

wings 
From  gulfs  of  tossing  foliage  there  is  blent : 


1*0) 

And  the  old  minster — forest-like  itself — 
With  its  long  avenues  of  pillar'd  shade, 
Seems  quivering  all  with  spirit,  as  that  strain 
O'erflows  its  dim  recesses,  leaving  not 
One  tomb  unthrill'd  by  the  strong  sympathy 
Answering  the  electric   notes. — Join,  join,  my 

soul ! 

In  thine  own  lowly,  trembling  consciousness, 
And  thine  own  solitude,  the  glorious  hymn. 

Rise  like  an  altar-fire  ! 

In  solemn  joy  aspire, 
Deepening  thy  passion  still,  O  choral  strain ! 

On  thy  strong  rushing  wind 

Bear  up  from  human  kind 
Thanks  and  implorings — be  they  not  in  vain  ! 

Father,  which  art  on  high  ! 

Weak  is  the  melody 
Of  harp  or  song  to  reach  thine  awful  ear, 

Unless  the  heart  be  there, 

Winging  the  words  of  prayer, 
With  its  own  fervent  faith  or  suppliant  fear. 

Let,  then,  thy  spirit  brood 

Over  the  multitude —  [Guest ! 

Be  thou  amidst   them   through    that   heavenly 

So  shall  their  cry  have  power 

To  win  from  thee  a  shower 
Of  healing  gifts  for  every  wounded  breast. 

What  griefs  that  make  no  sign 
That  ask  no  aid  but  thine. 


(51) 

Father  of  Mercies !  here  before  thee  swell, 

As  to  the  open  sky, 

All  their  dark  waters  lie 
To  thee  reveal'd,  in  each  close  bosom  cell. 

The  sorrow  for  the  dead 

Mantling  its  lonely  head 
From  the  world's  glare,  is,  in  thy  sight,  set  free  ; 

And  the  fond,  aching  love 

Thy  minister,  to  move 
All  the  wrung  spirit,  softening  it  for  thee. 

And  doth  not  thy  dread  eye 

Behold  the  agony 
In  that  most  hidden  chambei"of  the  heart, 

Where  darkly  sits  remorse, 

Beside  the  secret  source 
Of  fearful  visions,  keeping  watch  apart  ? 

Yes  !  here  before  thy  throne 

Many — yet  each  alone — 
To  thee  that  terrible  unveiling  make ; 

And  still  small  whispers  clear 

Are  startling  many  an  ear, 
As  if  a  trumpet  bade  the  dead  awake. 

How  dreadful  is  this  place ! 

The  glory  of  thy  face 
Fills  it  too  searchingiy  for  mortal  sight : 

Where  shall  the  guilty  flee  ? 

Over  what  far-off  sea? 

What  hills,  what  woods,  may  shroud  him  from 
that  liht  ? 


(52) 

Not  to  the  cedar  shade 

Let  his  vain  flight  be  made ; 
Nor  the  old  mountains,  nor  the  desert  sea ; 

What,  but  the  cross,  can  yield 

The  hope — the  stay — the  shield  ? 
Thence  may  the  Atoner  lift  him  up  to  Theo ! 

Be  thou,  be  thou  his  aid ! 

Oh  !  let  thy  soul  pervade 
The  haunted  caves  of  self-accusing  thought ! 

There  let  the  living  stone 

Be  cleft — the  seed  be  sown — 
The  song  of  fountains  from  the  silence  brought ! 

So  shall  thy  breath  once  more 

Within  the  soul  restore 
Thine  own  first  image — Holiest  and  most  High ! 

As  a  clear  lake  is  filPd 

With  hues  of  Heaven,  instill'd 
Down  to  the  depths  of  its  calm  purity. 

And  if,  amidst  the  throng 

Link'd  by  the  ascending  song,          [soar  ; 
There  are,  whose  thoughts  in  trembling  rapture 

Thanks,  Father !  that  the  power 

Of  joy,  man's  early  dower, 
Thus,  e'en  midst  tears,  can  fervently  adore ! 

Thanks  for  each  gift  divine  1 

Eternal  praise  be  thine, 
Blessing  and  love,  O  Thou  that  hearest  prayer ! 

Let  the  hymn  pierce  the  sky, 

And  let  the  tombs  reply ! 
Por  seed,  that  waits  the  harvest-time  is  there 


EDITH  ; 

A     TALE     OF     THE    WOODS. 

• 

THE  woods — oh  !  solemn  are  the  boundless  woods 

Of  the  great  Western  World,  when  day  declines, 
And  louder  sounds  the  roll  of  distant  floods, 

More  deep  the  rustling  of  the  ancient  pines ; 
When  dimness  gathers  on  the  stilly  air, 

And  mystery  seems  o'er  every  leaf  to  brood, 
Awful  it  is  for  human  heart  to  bear 

The  might  and  burden  of  the  solitude  ! 
Yet,   in  that  hour,  'midst   those  green  wastes, 

there  sate 

One  young  and  fair  ;  and  oh  !  how  desolate  ! 
But  undismay'd ;  while  sank  the  crimson  light, 
And  the  high  cedars  darken'd  with  the  night. 
Alone  she  sate  :  though  many  lay  around, 
They,  pale  and  silent  on  the  bloody  ground, 
Were  sever 'd  from  her  need  and  from  her  woe, 

Far  as  death  severs  Life.     O'er  that  wild  spot 
Combat  had  raged,  and  brought  the  valiant  low, 

And  left  them,  with  the  history  of  their  lot, 
Unto  the  forest  oaks.     A  fearful  scene 
For  her  whose  home  of  other  days  had  been 
'Midst  the  fair  halls  of  England  !  but  the  love 

Which  fill'd  her  soul  was  strong  to  cast  out  fear ; 
And  by  its  might  upborne  all  else  above,     [near. 

She  shrank  not — mark'd  not  that  the  dead  wero 
5* 


(54) 

Of  him  alone  she  thought,  whose  languid  head 

faintly  upon  her  wedded  bosom  fell ; 
Memory  of  aught  but  him  on  earth  was  fled 

While  heavily  she  felt  his  life-blood  well 
Fast  o'er  her  garments  forth,  and  vainly  bound 
With  her  torn  robe  and  hair  the  streaming  wound, 
Yet  hoped,  stijl  hoped! — Oh!  from  such  hopo 

how  long 

Affection  woos  the  whispers  that  deceive, 
Ev'n  when  the  pressure  of  dismay  grows  strong, 
And   we,    that   weep,  watch,    tremble,    ne'er 

believe 

The  blow  indeed  can  fall !     So  bow'd  she  there, 
Over  the  dying,  while  unconscious  prayer 
Fill'd  all  her  soul.     Now  pour'd  the  moonlight 

down, 
Veining    the    pine-stems    through    the    foliage 

brown, 

And  fireflies,  kindling  up  the  leafy  place, 
Cast  fitful  radiance  o'er  the  warrior's  face, 
Whereby  she  caught  its  changes :  to  her  eye 
The  eye  that  faded  look'd  through  gathering 

haze, 
Whence  love,  o'ermastering  mortal  agony, 

Lifted  a  long  deep  melancholy  gaze, 
When  voice  was  not ;    that  fond  sad  meaning 

pass'd — 

She  knew  the  fulness  of  her  woe  at  last ! 
One  shriek  the  forests  heard, — and  mute  she  lay 
And  cold  ;  yet  clasping  still  the  precious  clay 
To  her  scarce-heaving  breast.     Oh,  Love  and 

Death , 
Ye  have  sad  meetings  on  this  changeful  earth, 


(55) 

Man  y  and  sad !  but  airs  of  heavenly  breath- 
Shall  melt  the  links  that  bind  you,  for  your  biith 
Is  far  apart. 

.   Now  light,  of  a  richer  hue 
Than  the  moon  sheds,  came  flushing  mist  and 

dew  ; 
The  pines  grew  red  with  morning  :  fresh  winds 

play'd, 
Bright-color'd  birds  with    splendor   cross'd  the 

shade, 
Flitting  on  flower-like   wings ;    glad  murmurs 

broke 
From    reed,  and   spray,  and   leaf,  the  living 

strings 

Of  earth's  JEolian  lyre,  whose  music  woke 
Into  young  life  and  joy  all  happy  things. 
And    she    too   woke  from  that  long  dreamless 

trance, 

The  widow'd  Edith  :  fearfully  her  glance 
Fell,  as  in  doubt,  on  faces  dark  and  strange, 
And  dusky  forms.     A  sudden  sense  of  change 
Flash'd  o'er  her  spirit,  ev'n  ere  memory  swept 
The  tide  of  anguish  back  with    thought,  and 

slept  ; 

Yet  half  instinctively  she  rose,  and  spread 
Her  arms,  as  'twere  for  something  lost  or  fled, 
Then  faintly  sank  again.     The  forest  bough, 
With  all  its  whispers,  waved  not  o'er  her  now — 
Where  was  she  ?    'Midst  the  people  of  the  wild, 

By  the  red  hunter's  fire :  an  aged  chief, 
Whose  home  look'd  sad — for  therein  play'd  no 

child- 
Had  borne  her,  in  the  stillness  of  her  grief 


To  that  lone  cabin  of  the  woods ;  and  there, 

Won  by  a  form  so  desolately  fair, 

Or  touch'd  with  thoughts  from  some  past  sorrow 

sprung, 

O'er  her  low  couch  an  Indian  matron  hung, 
While  in  grave  silence,  yet  with  earnest  eye, 
The  ancient  warrior  of  the  waste  stood  by, 
Bending  in  watchfulness  his  proud  grey  head, 

And  leaning  on  his  bow. 

And  life  return'd, 
Life,  but  with  all  its  memories  of  the  dead, 

To  Edith's  heart ;  and  well  the  sufferer  learn'd 
Her  task  of  meek  endurance,  well  she  wore 
The  chasten'd  grief  that  humbly  can  adore, 
'Midst  blinding  tears.     But  unto  that  old  pair. 
Ev'n  as  a  breath  of  spring's  awakening  air. 
Her  presence  was  ;  or  as  a  sweet  wild  tune 
Bringing  back  tender  thoughts,  which  all  too  soon 
Depart  with  childhood.     Sadly  they  had  seen 

A  daughter  to  the  land  of  spirits  go, 
And  ever  from  that  time  her  fading  mien, 

And  voice,  like  winds  of  summer,  soft  and  low, 
Had  haunted  their  dim  years  ;  but  Edith's  face 
Now  look'd  in  holy  sweetness  from  her  place, 
And  they  again  seein'd  parents.     Oh !  the  joy, 
The  rich  deep  blessedness — though  earth's  alloy, 
Fear  that  still  bodes,  be  there — of  pouring  fortl* 
The  heart's  whole  power  of  love,  its  wealth  and 

worth 

Of  strong  affection,  in  one  healthful  flow, 
On  something  all  its  own ! — that  kindly  glow, 
Which  to  shut  inward  is  consuming  pain, 
Gives  the  glad  soul  its  flowering  time  again, 


(57) 

When,   like   the    sunshine,   freed. — And    gentle 

cares 

Tlr  adopted  Edith  meekly  gave  for  theirs 
Who    loved    her    thus: — her    spirit   dwelt,  the 

while, 

With  the  departed,  and  her  patient  smile 
Spoke    of    farewells   to    earth ; — yet    still    sho 

pray'd, 

Ev'n  o'er  her  soldier's  lowly  grave,  for  aid 
ONE  purpose  to  fulfil,  to  leave  one  trace 
Brightly  recording  that  her  dwelling-place 
Had  been  among  the  wilds ;  for  well  she  knew 
The  secret  whisper  of  her  bosom  true, 
Which  warn'd  her  hence. 

And  now,  by  many  a  word 
Link'd  unto  moments  when  the  heart  was  stirr'd, 
By  the  sweet  mournfulness  of  many  a  hymn, 
Sung  when  the  woods  at  eve  grew  hush'd  and 

dim, 

By  the  persuasion  of  her  fervent  eye, 
All  eloquent  with  childlike  piety, 
By  the  still  beauty  of  her  life,  she  strove 
To  win  for  heaven,  and  heaven-born  truth,  the 

love 

P'our'd  out  on  her  so  freely. — Nor  in  vain 
Was  that  soft-breathing  influence  to  enchain 
The  soul  in  gentle  bonds  :  by  slow  degrees 
Light  follow'd  on,  as  when  a  summer  breeze 
Parts  the  deep  masses  of  the  forest  shade 
And  lets  the  sunbeam  through  : — her  voice  was 

made 

Ev'n  such  a  breeze  ;  and  she  a  lowly  guide, 
Ry  faith  and  sorrow  raised  and  purified, 


(58) 

So  to  the  Cross  her  Indian  fosterers  led, 

Until  their  prayers  were  one.     When  morning 

spread 

O'er  the  blue  lake,  and  when  the  sunset's  glow 
Touch'd  into  golden  bronze  the  cypress  bough, 
And  when  the  quiet  of  the  Sabbath  time 
Sank  on  her  heart,  though  no  melodious  chime 
Waken'd  the  wilderness,  their  prayers  were  one. 
— Now  might  she  pass  in  hope,  her  work  was 

done. 

And  she  was  passing  from  the  woods  away  ; 
The  broken  flower  of  England  might  not  stay 
Amidst  those  alien  shades  ;  her  eye  was  bright 
Ev'n  yet  with  something  of  a  starry  light, 
But  her  form  wasted,  and  her  fair  young  cheek 
Wore  oft  and  patiently  a  fatal  streak 
A  rose  whose  root  was  death.     The  parting  sigh 
Of  autumn  through  the  forests  had  gone  by, 
And  the  rich  maple  o'er  her  wanderings  lone 
Its  crimson  leaves  in  many  a  shower  had  strown, 
Flushing  the  air  ;  and  winter's  blast  had  been 
Amidst  the  pines  ;  and  now  a  softer  green 
Fringed  their  clark  boughs ;  for  spring  again  had 

come, 

The  sunny  spring  !  but  Edith  to  her  home 
Was  journeying  fast.     Alas  !  we  think  it  sad 
To  part  with  life,  when  all  the  earth  looks  glad 
In  her  young  lovely  things,  when  voices  break 
Inio  sweet  sounds,  and    leaves    and    blossoms 

wake  : 

[s  it  not  brighter  then,  in  that  far  clime 
Where  graves  are  not,  nor  blights  of  changeful 

time, 


If  here  such  glory  dwell  with  passing  blooms, 
Such  golden  sunshine  rest  around  the  tombs  ? 
So  thought  the  dying  one.     'Twas  early  day, 
And  sounds  and  odors  with  the  breezes'  play, 
Whispering  of  spring-time,  through  the  cabin 

door, 

Unto  her  couch  life's  farewell  sweetness  bore  ; 
Then  with  a  look  where  all  her  hope  awoke, 
"  My    father !  " — to    the    gray-hair'd   chief   she 

spoke — 
"  Know'st  thou  that  I  depart  ?  " — "  I  know,  I 

know," 

He  answer'd  mournfully,  "  that  thou  must  go 
To  thy  beloved,  my  daughter  !  " — "  Sorrow  not 
For  me,   kind  mother !  "   with  meek  smiles 

once  more 

She  murmnr'd  in  low  tones  ;  "  one  happy  lot 
Awaits  us,  friends !  upon  the  better  shore  ; 
For  we  have  pray'd  together  in  one  trust, 
And  lifted  our  frail  spirits  from  the  dust, 
To  God,  who  gave  them.     Lay  me  by  mine 

own, 

Under  the  cedar  shade  :  where  he  is  gone 
Thither  I  go.     There  will  my  sisters  be, 
And  the  dead  parents,  lisping  at  whose  knee 
My  childhood's  prayer  was  learn'd, — the  Sav- 
iour's prayer 
Which    now  ye  know, — and  I  shall  meet  you 

there, 

Father,  and  gentle  mother ! — ye  have  bound 
The  bruised  reed,  and  mercy  shall  be  found 
By  Mercy's  children." — From  the  matron's  eye 
Dropp'd  tears,  her  sole  and  passionate  reply  ; 


But  Edith  felt  them  not ;  for  now  a  sleep, 

Solemnly  beautiful,  a  stillness  deep, 

Pell  on  her  settled  face.     Then,  sad  and  slow, 

And  mantling  up  his  stately  head  in  woe, 

"  Thou'rt  passing  hence,"  he  sang,  that  warrior 

old, 
In    sounds     like     those    by    plaintive    waters 

roll'd. 

"  Thou'rt  passing  from  the  lake's  green  side, 

And  the  hunter's  hearth  away  ; 
For  the  time  of  flowers,  for  the  summer's  pride. 

Daughter  !  thou  canst  not  stay. 

Thou'rt  journeying  to  thy  spirit's  home, 

Where  the  skies  are  ever  clear ; 
The  corn-month's  golden  hours  shall  come, 

But  they  shall  not  find  thee  here. 

And  we  shall  miss  thy  voice,  my  bird ! 

Under  our  whispering  pine  ; 
Music  shall  'midst  the  leaves  be  heard, 

But  not  a  song  like  thine. 

A  breeze  that  roves  o'er  stream  and  hill, 

Telling  of  winter  gone, 
Hath  such  sweet  falls — yet  caught  we  still 

A  farewell  in  its  tone. 

But  thou,  my  bright  one !  thou  shalt  be 
Where  farewell  sounds  are  o'er  ; 

Thou,  in  the  eyes  thou  lov'st,  shalt  see 
No  fear  of  parting  more. 


(61) 

The  mossy  grave  thy  tears  have  wet, 
And  the  wind's  wild  moan  ings  by, 

Thou  with  thy  kindred  shalt  forget, 
'Midst  flowers — not  such  as  die. 

The  shadow  from  thy  brow  shall  melt, 

The  sorrow1  from  thy  strain, 
But  where  thine  earthly  smile  hath  dwell 

Our  hearts  shall  thirst  in  vain. 

Dim  will  our  cabin  be,  and  lone, 

When  thou,  its  light,  art  fled  ; 
Yet  hath  thy  step  the  pathway  shown 

Unto  the  happy  dead. 

And  we  will  follow  thee,  our  guide ! 

And  join  that  shining  band  ; 
Thou'rt  passing  from  the  lake's  green  side — 

Go  to  the  better  land  !  " 

The  song  had  ceased — the  listeners  caught  no 

breath, 
That  lovely  sleep  had  melted  into  death. 


THE  WIDOW  OF  CRESCENTIUS. 


PART    I. 


'MIDST  Tivoli's  luxuriant  glades, 
Bright-foaming  falls,  and  olive  shades, 
Where  dwelt,  in  days  departed  long, 
The  sons  of  battle  and  of  song, 
No  tree,  no  shrub  its  foliage  rears, 
But  o'er  the  wrecks  of  other  years 
Temples  and  domes,  which  long  have  been 
The  soil  of  that  enchanted  scene. 


There  the  wild  fig  tree  and  the  vine 
O'er  Hadrian's  mouldering  villa  twine  ; 
The  cypress,  in  funereal  grace, 
Usurps  the  vanish'd  column's  place  ; 
O'er  fallen  shrine,  and  ruin'd  frieze, 
The  wall-flower  rustles  in  the  breeze ; 
Acanthus-leaves  the  marble  hide, 
They  once  adorn'd  in  sculptured  pride ; 
And  nature  hath  resumed  her  throne 
O'er  the  vast  works  of  ages  flown. 

Was  it  for  this  that  many  a  pile, 
Pride  of  Illissus  and  the  Nile, 
To  Anio's  banks  the  image  lent 
Of  each  imperial  monument  ^ 


(63) 

Now  Athens  weeps  her  scatter'd  fanes, 
Thy  temples,  Egypt,  strew  thy  plains  ; 
And  the  proud  fabrics  Hadrian  rear'd 
From  Tiber's  vale  have  disappear'd. 
We  need  no  prescient  sibyl  there, 
The  doom  of  grandeur  to  declare, 
Each  stone,  where  weeds  and  ivy  climb, 
Reveals  some  oracle  of  Time  : 
Each  relic  utters  Fate's  decree, 
The  future  as  the  past  shall  be. 

Halls  of  the  dead  !  in  Tiber's  vale, 
Who  now  shall  tell  your  lofty  tale  ? 
Who  trace  the  high  patrician's  dome, 
The  bard's  retreat,  the  hero's  home  ? 
When  moss-clad  wrecks  alone  record, 
There  dwelt  the  world's  departed  lord ' 
In  scenes  where  verdure's  rich  array 
Still  sheds  young  beauty  o'er  decay, 
And  sunshine,  on  each  glowing  hill, 
'Midst  ruins  finds  a  dwelling  still. 

Sunk  is  thy  palace,  but  thy  tomb, 
Hadrian !  hath  shared  a  prouder  doom, 
Though  vanish'd  with  the  days  of  old 
Its  pillars  of  Corinthian  mould  ; 
And  the  fair  forms  by  sculpture  wrought, 
Each  bodying  some  immortal  thought, 
Which  o'er  that  temple  of  the  dead, 
Serene,  but  solemn  beauty  shed, 
Have  found,  like  glory's  self,  a  grave 
In  Time's  abyss  or  Tiber's  wave  : 


(64) 

Yet  dreams  more  lofty  and  more  fair, 
Than  art's  bold  hand  hath  imaged  e'er, 
High  thoughts  of  many  a  mighty  mind 
Expanding  when  all  else  declined, 
In  twilight  years,  when  only  they 
Recall'd  the  radiance  pass'd  away, 
Have  made  0~at  ancient  pile  their  home, 
Fortress  of  freedom  and  of  Rome. 

There  he,  who  strove  in  evil  days, 
Again  to  kindle  glory's  rays, 
Whose  spirit  sought  a  path  of  light, 
For  those  dim  ages  far  too  bright, 
Crescentius  long  maintain'd  the  strife, 
Which  closed  but  with  its  martyr's  life, 
And  left  the  imperial  tomb  a  name, 
A  heritage  of  holier  fame. 
There  closed  De  Brescia's  mission  high, 
From  thence  the  patriot  came  to  die  ; 
And  thou,  whose  Roman  soul  the  last, 
Spoke  with  the  voice  of  ages  past, 
Whose  thoughts  so  long  from  earth  hath  fled, 
To  mingle  with  the  glorious  dead, 
That  'midst  the  world's  degenerate  race, 
They  vainly  sought  a  dwelling-place, 
Within  that  house  of  death  didst  brood 
O'er  visions  to  thy  ruin  woo'd. 
Yet  worthy  of  a  brighter  lot, 
Rienzi !  be  thy  faults  forgot ! 
For  thou,  when  all  around  thee  lay 
Chain'd  in  the  slumbers  of  decay  ; 
So  sunk  each  heart,  that  mortal  eye          .-„  - 
Had  scarce  a  tear  less  for  liberty : 


(05) 

Alone,  amidst  the  darkness  there. 
Couldst  gaze  on  Rome — yet  not  despair! 

'Tis  morn,  and  Nature's  richest  dyes 
Are  floating  o'er  Italian  skies  ; 
Tints  of  transparent  lustre  shine 
Along  the  snow-clad  Apenine  ; 
The  clouds  have  left  Soracte's  height, 
And  yellow  Tiber  winds  in  light, 
Where  tombs  and  fallen  fanes  have  strew'd 
The  wild  Campagna's  solitude. 
'Tis  sad  amidst  that  scene  to  trace 
Those  relics  of  a  vanish'd  race  ; 
Yet  o'er  the  ravaged  path  of  time, 
Such  glory  sheds  that  brilliant  clime, 
AVhere  nature  still,  though  empires  fall, 
Holds  her  triumphant  festival  • 
E'en  desolation  wears  a  smile, 
Where  skies  and  sunbeams  laugh  the  while  ; 
And  Heaven's  own  light,  Earth's  richest  bloom 
Array  the  ruin  and  the  tomb. 

But  she,  who  from  yon  convent  tower 
Breathes  the  pure  freshness  of  the  hour  ; 
She,  whose  rich  flow  of  raven  hair 
Streams  wildly  on  the  morning  air  ; 
Heeds  not  how  fair  the  scene  below, 
Robed  in  Italia's  brightest  glow, 
Though  throned  'midst  Latium's  classic  plains 
Th'  Eternal  City's  towers  and  fanes, 
And  they,  the  Pleiades  of  the  earth, 
The  seven  proud  hills  of  Empire's  birth. 
6* 


(66) 

Lie  spread  beneath  :  not  now  her  glance 

Roves  o'er  that  vast,  sublime  expanse  ; 

Inspired,  and  bright  with  hope,  'tis  thrown 

On  Hadrian's  massy  tomb  alone  ; 

There,  from  the  storm  when  Freedom  fled, 

His  faithful  few  Crescentius  led  ! 

While  she,  his  anxious  bride,  who  now, 

Bends  o'er  the  scene  her  youthful  brow, 

Sought  refuge  in  the  hallow'd  fane, 

Which  then  could  shelter,  not  in  vain. 

But  now  the  lofty  strife  is  o'er, 

And  Liberty  shall  weep  no  more. 

At  length  imperial  Otho's  voice 

Bids  her  devoted  sons  rejoice  ; 

And  he,  who  battled  to  restore 

The  glories  and  the  rights  of  yore, 

Whose  accents,  like  the  clarion's  sound, 

Could  burst  the  dead  repose  around, 

Again  his  native  Rome  shall  see, 

The  sceptred  city  of  the  free  ! 

And  young  Stephania  waits  the  hour 

When  leaves  her  lord  his  fortress-tower, 

Her  ardent  heart  with  joy  elate, 

That  seems  beyond  the  reach  of  fate ; 

Her  mien,  like  creature  from  above, 

All  vivified  with  hope  and  love. 

Fair  is  her  form,  and  in  her  eye 
Lives  all  the  soul  of  Italy  ! 
A  meaning  lofty  and  inspired, 
As  by  her  native  day-star  fired  : 
Such  wild  and  high  expression,  fraught 
With  glances  of  impassion'd  thought, 


(07) 

As  fancy  sheds  its  vision  bright 

O'er  priestess  of  the  God  of  Light ! 

And  the  dark  locks  that  lend  her  face 

A  youthful  and  luxuriant  grace, 

Wave  o?er  her  cheek,  whose  kindling  dyes 

Seem  from  the  fire  within  to  rise  ; 

But  deepen'd  by  the  burning  heaven 

To  her  own  land  of  sunbeams  given. 

Italian  art  that  fervid  glow 

Would  o'er  ideal  beauty  throw, 

And  with  such  ardent  life  express 

Her  high- wrought  dreams  of  loveliness  ; — 

Dreams  which,  surviving  Empire's  fall, 

The  shade  of  glory  still  recall. 

But  see, — the  banner  of  the  brave, 
O'er  Hadrian's  tomb  hath  ceas'd  to  wave. 
'Tis  lower'd — and  now  Stephania's  eye 
Can  well  the  martial  train  descry, 
Who,  issuing  from  that  ancient  dome, 
Pour  through  the  crowded  streets  of  Rome. 
Now  from  her  watch-tower  on  the  height. 
With  step  as  fabled  wood-nymph's  light, 
.  She  flies — and  swift  her  way  pursues 
Through  the  lone  convent's  avenues. 
Dark  cypress-groves,  and  fields  o'erspread 
With  records  of  the  conquering  dead, 
And  paths  which  track  a  glowing  waste, 
She  traverses  in  breathless  haste  : 
And  by  the  tombs  where  dust  is  shrined. 
Once  tenanted  by  loftiest  mind. 
Still  passing  on,  hath  reach'd  the  gate 
Of  Rome,  the  proud,  thp 


(68) 

Throng'd  are  the  streets,  and,  still  renew'd, 
Rush  on  the  gathering  multitude 

Is  it  their  high-soul'd  chief  to  greet, 
That  thus  the  Roman  thousands  meet  ? 
With  names  that  bid  their  thoughts  ascend, 
Crescentius,  thine  in  song  to  blend ; 
And  of  triumphal  days  gone  by 
Recall  th'  inspiring  pageanty  ? 
— There  is  an  air  of  breathless  dread, 
An  eager  glance,  a  hurrying  tread ; 
And  now  a  fearful  silence  round, 
And  now  a  fitful  murmuring  sound, 
'Midst  the  pale  crowds,  that  almost  seem 
Phantoms  of  some  tumultuous  dream, 
Quick  is  each  step,  and  wild  each  mien, 
Portentous  of  some  awful  scene. 
Bride  of  Crescentius !  as  the  throng 
Bore  thee  with  whelming  force  along, 
How  did  thine  anxious  heart  beat  high, 
Till  rose  suspense  to  agony ! 
Too  brief  suspense,  that  soon  shall  close, 
And  leave  thy  heart  to  deeper  woes. 

Who  'midst  yon  guarded  precinct  stands, 
With  fearless  mien,  but  fetter'd  hands  ? 
The  ministers  of  death  are  nigh, 
Yet  a  calm  grandeur  lights  his  eye  ; 
And  in  his  glance  there  lives  a  mind, 
Which  was  not  form'd  for  chains  to  bind, 
But  cast  in  such  heroic  mould 
As  theirs,  th'  ascendant  ones  of  old. 
Crescentius  !  freedom's  daring  son, 
Is  this  the  guerdon  thou  hast  won? 


(69) 

Oh,  worthy  to  have  lived  and  died 
In  the  bright  days  of  Latium's  pride  ! 
Thus  must  the  beam  of  glory  close, 
O'er  the  seven  hills  again  that  rose, 
When  at  thy  voice  to  burst  the  yoke, 
The  soul  of  Rome  indignant  woke  ? 
Vain  dream  !  the  sacred  shields  are  gone, 
Sunk  is  the  crowning  city's  throne : 
Th'  illusions  that  around  her  cast 
Their  guardian  spells  have  long  been  past. 
Thy  life  hath  been  a  shot-star's  ray. 
Shed  o'er  her  midnight  of  decay ; 
Thy  death  at  Freedom's  ruin'd  shrine 
Must  rivet  every  chain — but  thine. 

Calm  is  his  aspect,  and  his  eye 
Now  fix'd  upon  the  deep  blue  sky, 
Now  on  those  wrecks  of  ages  fled, 
Around  in  desolation  spread  ; 
Arch,  temple,  column,  worn  and  grey, 
Recording  triumphs  pass'd  away  ; 
Works  of  the  mighty  and  the  free, 
Whose  steps  on  earth  no  more  shall  be,     . 
Though  their  bright  course  hath  left  a  trace 
Nor  years  nor  sorrows  can  efface. 

Why  changes  now  the  patriot's  mien 
Erewhile  so  loftily  serene  ? 
Thus  can  approaching  death  control 
The  might  of  that  commanding  soul  ? 
No  ! — Heard  ye  not  that  thrilling  cry 
Which  told  of  bitterest  agony  ? 
HE  heard  it,  and,  at  once  subdued, 
Hath  sunk  the  hero's  fortitude, 


HE  heard  it,  and  his  heart  too  well 

Whence  rose  that  voice  of  woe  can  tell ; 

And  'midst  the  gazing  throngs  around 

One  well-known  form  his  glance  hath  found ; 

One  fondly  loving  and  beloved. 

In  grief,  in  peril,  faithful  proved. 

Yes,  in  the  wildness  of  despair, 

She.  his  devoted  bride,  is  there. 

Pale,  breathless,  through  the  crowd  she  flies, 

The  light  of  frenzy  in  her  eyes  : 

But  ere  her  arms  can  clasp  the  form 

Which  life  ere  long  must  cease  to  warm ; 

Ere  on  his  agonizing  breast 

Her  heart  can  heave,  her  head  can  rest ; 

Check 'd  in  her  course  by  ruthless  hands, 

Mute,  motionless,  at  once  she  stands  ; 

With  bloodless  cheek  and  vacant  glance, 

Frozen  and  fix'd  in  horror's  trance  ; 

Spell-bound,  as  every  sense  were  fled, 

And  thought  o'erwhelm'd,  and  feeling  de.'id 

And  the  light  waving  of  her  hair, 

And  veil,  far  floating  on  the  air, 

Alone,  in  that  dread  moment,  show, 

She  is  no  sculptured  form  of  woe. 

The  scene  of  grief  and  death  is  o'er, 
The  patriot's  heart  shall  throb  no  more  ; 
But  hers — so  vainly  form'd  to  prove 
The  pure  devotedness  of  love, 
And  draw  from  fond  affection's  eye 
All  thoughts  sublime,  all  feelings  high  ; 
When  consciousness  again  shall  wake 
Hath  now  no  refuse — tut  to  break 


The  spirit  long  inured  to  pain 

May  smile  at  fate  in  calm  disdain  ; 

Survive  its  darkest  hour,  and  rise 

In  more  majestic  energies. 

But  in  the  glow  of  vernal  pride, 

If  each  warm  hope  at  once  hath  died, 

Then  sinks  the  mind,  a  blighted  flower, 

Dead  to  the  sunbeam  and  the  shower  ; 

A  broken  gem,  whose  inborn  light 

Is  scatter'd — ne'er  to  reunite. 

PART    II. 

HAST  thou  a  scene  that  is  not  spread 
With  records  of  thy  glory  fled  ? 
A  monument  that  doth  not  tell 
The  tale  of  liberty's  farewell  ? 
Italia  !  thou  art  but  a  grave 
Where  flowers  luxuriate  o'er  the  brave, 
And  Nature  gives  her  treasures  birth 
O'er  all  that  hath  been  great  on  earth. 
Yet  smile  thy  heavens  as  once  they  smiled, 
When  thou  wert  Freedom's  favor'd  child  : 
Though  fane  and  tomb  alike  are  low, 
Time  hath  not  dimm'd  thy  sunbeam's  glow  ; 
And  robed  in  that  exulting  ray, 
Thou  seem'st  to  triumph  o'er  decay ; 
O  yet,  though  by  thy  sorrows  bent, 
In  nature's  pomp  magnificent ! 
What  marvel  if,  when  all  was  lost, 
Still  on  thy  bright  enchanted  coast, 
Though  many  an  omen  warn'd  him  thence, 
Linger'd  the  lord  of  eloquence  ! 


(72) 

Still  gazing  on  the  lovely  sky, 

Whose  radiance  woo'd  him — but  to  die  : 

Like  him,  who  would  not  linger  there, 

Where  heaven,  earth,  ocean,  all  are  fair  ? 

Who  'midst  thy  glowing  scenes  could  dwell, 

Nor  bid  awhile  his  griefs  farewell  ? 

Hath  not  thy  pure  and  genial  air 

Balm  for  all  sadness  but  despair  ? 

No !  there  are  pangs,  whose  deep-worn  trace 

Not  all  thy  magic  can  efface  ! 

Hearts,  by  unkindness  wrung,  may  learn 

The  world  and  all  its  gifts  to  spurn  ; 

Time  may  steal  on  with  silent  tread, 

And  dry  the  tear  that  mourns  the  dead ; 

May  change  fond  love,  subdue  regret, 

And  teach  e'en  vengeance  to  forget : 

But  thou,  Remorse  !  there  is  no  charm 

Thy  sting,  avenger,  to  disarm ! 

Vain  are  bright  suns,  and  laughing  skies, 

To  soothe  thy  victim's  agonies  : 

The  heart  once  made  thy  burning  throne, 

Still,  while  it  beats,  is  thine  alone. 

In  vain  for  Otho's  joyless  eye 
Smile  the  fair  scenes  of  Italy, 
As  through  her  landscapes'  rich  array, 
Th'  imperial  pilgrim  bends  his  way. 
Thy  form,  Crescentius,  on  his  sight 
Rises  when  nature  laughs  in  light. 
Glides  round  him  at  the  midnight  hour, 
Is  present  in  his  festal  bower, 
With  awful  voice  and  frowning  mien, 
By  all  but  him  unheard,  unseen. 


(73) 

Oh  !  thus  to  shadows  of  the  grave 
Be  every  tyrant  still  a  slave  ! 

Where  through  Gorgano's  woody  dells. 
O'er  bending  oaks  the  north  wind  swells, 
A  sainted  hermit's  lowly  tomb 
Is  bosom'd  in  umbrageous  gloom, 
In  shades  that  saw  him  live  and  die 
Beneath  their  waving  canopy. 
'Twas  his,  as  legends  tell,  to  share 
The  converse  of  immortals  there ; 
Around  that  dweller  of  the  wild 
There  "  bright  appearances  "  have  smiled, 
And  angel-wings,  at  eve,  have  been 
Gleaming  the  shadowy  boughs  between. 
And  often  from  that  secluded  bower 
Hath  breathed,  at  midnight's  calmer  hour, 
A  swell  of  viewless  harps,  a  sound 
Of  warbled  anthems  pealing  round. 
Oh,  none  but  voices  of  the  sky 
Might  wake  that  thrilling  harmony 
Whose  tones,  whose  very  echoes,  made 
An  Eden  of  the  lonely  shade ! 

Years  have  gone  by ;  the  hermit  sleeps 
Amidst  Gorgano's  woods  and  steeps ! 
Ivy  and  flowers  have  half  o'ergrown 
And  veil'd  his  low,  sepulchral  stone 
Yet  still  the  spot  is  holy,  still 
Celestial  footsteps  haunt  the  hill ; 
And  oft  the  awe-struck  mountaineer 
Aerial  vesper  hymns  may  hear 
7 


(74) 

Around  those  forest  precincts  float, 
Soft,  solemn,  clear, — but  still  remote. 
Oft  will  Affliction  breathe  her  plaint 
To  that  rude  shrine's  departed  saint, 
And  deem  that  spirits  of  the  blest 
There  shed  sweet  influence  o'er  her  breast. 

And  thither  Otho  now  repairs 
To  soothe  his  soul  with  vows  and  prayers; 
And  if  for  him,  on  holy  ground, 
The  lost  one,  Peace,  may  yet  be  found, 
'Midst  rocks  and  forests,  by  the  bed 
Where  calmly  sleep  the  sainted  dead, 
She  dwells,  remote  from  heedless  eye, 
With  Nature's  lonely  majesty. 

Vain,  vain  the  search — his  troubled  breast 
Nor  vow  nor  penance  lulls-  to  rest ; 
The  weary  pilgrimage  is  o'er, 
The  hopes  that  cheer'd  it  are  no  more. 
Then  sinks  his  soul,  and  day  by  day, 
Youth's  buoyant  energies  decay. 
The  light  of  health  his  eye  hath  flown, 
The  glow  that  tinged  his  cheek  is  gone. 
Joyless  as  one  on  whom  is  laid 
Some  baleful  spell  that  bids  him  fade, 
Extending  its  mysterious  power 
O'er  every  scene,  o'er  every  hour  ; 
E'en  thus  he  withers ;  and  to  him, 
Italia's  brilliant  skies  are  dim. 
He  withers — in  that  glorious  clime 
Where  Nature  laughs  in  scorn  of  Time  ; 
And  suns,  that  shed  on  all  below 
Their  full  and  vivifying  glow, 


(75) 

From  him  alone  their  power  withhold, 
And  leave  his  heart  in  darkness  cold. 
Earth  blooms  around  him,  heaven  is  fair, 
He  only  seems  to  perish  there. 

Yet  sometimes  will  a  transient  smile 
Play  o'er  his  faded  cheek  awhile, 
When  breathes  his  minstrel-boy  a  strain 
Of  power  to  lull  all  earthly  pain  ; 
So  wildly  sweet,  its  notes  might  seem 
Th'  ethereal  music  of  a  dream, 
A  spirit's  voice  from  worlds  unknown, 
Deep  thrilling  power  in  every  tone ! 
Sweet  is  that  lay,  and  yet  its  flow 
Hath  language  only  given  to  woe  ; 
And   if  at  times  its  wakening  swell 
Some  tale  of  glory  seems  to  tell, 
Soon  the  proud  notes  of  triumph  die, 
Lost  in  a  dirge's  harmony. 
Oh  !  many  a  pang  the  heart  hath  proved, 
Hath  deeply  suffer'd,   fondly  loved, 
Ere  the  sad  strain  could  catch  from  thence 
Such  deep  impassion'd  eloquence ! 
Yes !  gaze  on  him,  that  minstrel-boy — 
He  is  no  child  of  hope  and  joy  ,• 
Though  few  his  years,  yet  have  they  berni 
Such  as  leave  traces  on  the  mien, 
And  o'er  the  roses  of  our  prime 
Breathe  other  blights  than  those  of  time. 

Yet,  seems  his  spirit  wild  and  pioud, 
By  grief  unsoften'd  and  unbow'd. 
Oh  !  there  are  sorrows  which   impart 
A  sternness  foreign  to  the  heart, 


(70) 

And  rushing  with  an  earthquake's  power, 
That  makes  a  desert  hi  an  hour ; 
Rouse  the  dread  passions  in  their  course, 
As  tempests  wake  the  billows'  force  ! — 
'Tis  sad  on  youthful  Guide's  face, 
The  stamp  of  woes  like  these  to  trace. 
Oh  !  where  can  ruins  awe  mankind 
Dark  as  the  ruins  of  the  rnind  ? 

His  mien  is  lofty,  but  his  gaze 
Too  well  a  wandering  soul  betrays  : 
His  full,  dark  eye  at  times  is  bright 
With  strange  and  momentary  light, 
Whose  quick  uncertain  flashes  throw 
O'er  his  pale  cheek  a  hectic  glow  j 
And  oft  his  features  and  his  air 
A  shade  of  troubled  mystery  wear, 
A  glance  of  hurried  wildness,  fraught 
With  some  unfathomable  thought. 
Whate'er  that  thought,  still  unexpress'd, 
Dwells  the  sad  secret  in  his  breast ; 
The  pride  his  haughty  brow  reveals, 
All  other  passion  well  conceals. 
He  breathes  each  wounded  feeling's  tone 
In  music's  eloquence  alone  ; 
His  soul's  deep  voice  is  only  pour'd 
Through  his  full  song  and  swelling  chord, 
He  seeks  no  friend,  but  shuns  the  train 
Of  courtiers  with  a  proud  disdain ; 
And,  save  when  Otho  bids  his  lay 
Its  half  unearthly  power  essay, 
In  hall  or  bower  the  heart  to  thrill, 
His  haunts  are  wild  and  lonely  still. 


•*       (  77  ) 

Far  distant  from  the  heedless  throng, 
He  roves  old  Tiber's  banks  along, 
Where  Empire's  desolate  remains 
Lie  seatter'd  o'er  the  silent  plains ; 
Or,  lingering  'midst  each  ruin'd  shrine 
That  strews  the  desert  Palatine, 
With  mournful,  yet  commanding  mien, 
Like  the  sad  Genius  of  the  scene, 
Entranced  in  awful  thought  appears 
To  commune  with  departed  years. 
Or  at  the  dead  of  night,  when  Rome 
Seems  of  heroic  shades  the  home  ; 
When  Tiber's  murmuring  voice  recalls, 
The  mighty  to,  their  ancient  halls  ; 
When  hush'd  is  every  meaner  sound, 
And  the  deep  moonlight-calm  around 
Leaves  to  the  solemn  scene  alone 
The  majesty  of  ages  flown  ; 
A  pilgrim  to  each  hero's  tomb, 
He  wanders  through  the  sacred  gloom; 
And,  'midst  those  dwellings  of  decay, 
At  times  will  breathe  so  sad  a  lay, 
So  wild  a  grandeur  in  each  tone, 
'Tis  like  a  dirge  for  empires  gone  ! 

Awake  thy  pealing  harp  again, 
13ut  breathe  a  more  exulting  strain, 
Young  Guido  !  for  a  while  forgot 
Be  the  dark  secrets  of  thy  lot, 
And  rouse  th'  inspiring  soul  of  song 
To  speed  the  banquet's  hour  along ! 
The  feast  is  spread  ;  and  music's  call 
Is  echoing  through  the  royal  hall, 
7* 


(7S) 

And  banners  wave  and  trophies  shine, 

O'er  stately  guests  in  glittering  line ; 

And  Otho  seeks  awhile  to  chace 

The  thoughts  he  never  can  erase, 

And  bid  the  voice,  whose  murmurs  deep 

Rise  like  a  spirit  on  his  sleep, 

The  still  small  voice,  of  conscience  die, 

Lost  in  the  din  of  revelry. 

On  his  pale  brow  dejection  lowers, 

But  that  shall  yield  to  festal  hours  ; 

A  gloom  is  in  his  faded  eye, 

But  that  from  music's  power  shall  fly ; 

His  wasted  cheek  is  wan  with  care, 

But  mirth  shall  spread  fresh  crimson  there. 

Wake,  Guido  !  wake  thy  numbers  high, 

Strike  the  bold  chord  exultingly ! 

And  pour  upon  th'  enraptured  ear 

Such  strains  as  warriors  love  to  hear ! 

Let  the  rich  mantling  goblet  flow, 

And  banish  all  resembling  woe  ; 

And,  if  a  thought  intrude,  of  power 

To  mar  the  bright  convivial  hour, 

Still  must  its  influence  lurk  unseen, 

And  cloud  the  heart — but  not  the  mien ! 

Away,  vain  dream  ! — on  Otho's  brow 
Still  darker  lower  the  shadows  now  ; 
Changed  are  his  features,  now  o'erspread 
With  the  cold  paleness  of  the  dead ; 
Now  crimson'd  with  a  hectic  dye, 
The  burning  flush  of  agony ! 
His  lip  is  quivering,  and  his  breast 
Heaves,  with  convulsive  pangs  oppress'd  ; 


(79) 

Now  his  dim  eye  seems  fix'd  and  glazed, 
And  now  to  heaven  in  anguish  raised ; 
And  as,  with  unavailing  aid, 
Around  him  throng  his  guests  disrrmy'd, 
He  sinks — while  scarce  his  struggling  breath 
Hath  power  to  falter — "  This  is  death  !  " 

Then  rush'd  that  haughty  child  of  song 
Dark  Guido,  through  the  awe-struck  throng  ; 
Fill'd  with  a  strange  delirious  light, 
His  kindling  eye  shone  wildly  bright, 
And  on  the  sufferer's  mien  awhile 
Gazing  with  stem  vindictive  smile, 
A  feverish  glow  of  triumph  dyed 
His  burning  cheek,  while  thus  he  cried  : — 
"  Yes  !  these  are  death  -pangs — on  thy  brow 
Is  set  the  seal  of  vengeance  now ! 
Oh !  well  was  mix'd  the  deadly  draught, 
And  long  and  deeply  hast  thou  quafPd  ; 
And  bitter  as  thy  pangs  may  be, 
They  are  but  guerdons  meet  from  me  ! 
Yet,  these  are  but  a  moment's  throes, 
Howe'er  intense,  they  soon  shall  close. 
Soon  shalt  thou  yield  thy  fleeting  breath, 
My  life  hath  been  a  lingering  death  ; 
Since  one  dark  hour  of  woe  and  crime, 
A  blood-spot  on  the  page  of  time ! 

"  Deem'st  thou  my  mind  of  reason  void  ? 
It  is  not  frenzied, — but  destroy'd ! 
Aye  !     view    the    wreck    with     shuddering 

thought, — 
That  work  of  ruin  thou  hast  wrought! 


(80) 

"  The  secret  of  thy  doom  to  tell, 
My  name  alone  suffices  well ! 
Stephania  !  once  a  hero's  bride  ! 
Otho  !  thou  know'st  the  rest — HE  DIED. 
Yes  !  trusting  to  a  monarch's  word, 
The  Roman  fell,  untried,  unheard  ! 
And  thou,  whose  every  pledge  was  vain 
How  couldst  thou  trust  in  aught  again  ? 

"  He  died,  and  I  was  changed — my  soul, 
A  lonely  wanderer,  spurird  control. 
From  peace,  and  light,  and  glory  hurl'd, 
The  outcast  of  a  purer  world, 
I  saw  each  brighter  hope  o'erthrown, 
And  lived  for  one  dread  task  alone. 
The  task  is  closed— fulfill'd  the  vow, 
The  hand  of  death  is  on  thee  now. 
Betrayer  !  in  thy  turn  betray'd, 
The  debt  of  blood  shall  soon  be  paid ! 
Thine  hour  is  come — the  time  has  been 
My  heart  had  shrunk  from  such  a  scene ; 
That  feeling  long  is  past — my  fate 
Hath  made  me  stern  as  desolate. 

"  Ye,  that  round  me  shuddering  stand, 
Ye  chiefs  and  princes  of  the  land ! 
Mourn  ye  a  guilty  monarch's  doom  ? 
— Ye  wept  not  o'er  the  patriot's  tomb  ! 
He  sleeps  unhonor'd — yet  be  mine 
To  share  his  low,  neglected  shrine. 
His  soul  with  freedom  finds  a  home, 
His  grave  is  that  of  glory — Rome  ! 
Are  not  the  great  of  old  with  her, 
That  city  of  the  sepulchre  ? 


(81) 

Lead  me  to  death !  and  let  me  share 
The  slumbers  of  the  mighty  there  !  " 

The  day  departs — that  fearful  day 
Fades  in  calm  loveliness  away  ; 
From  purple  heavens  its  lingering  beam 
Seems  melting  into  Tiber's  stream, 
And  softly  tints  each  Roman  hill 
With  glowing  light,  as  clear  and  still, 
As  if,  unstain'd  by  crime  or  woe, 
Its  hours  had  pass'd  in  silent  flow. 
The  day  sets  calmly — it  hath  been 
Mark'd  with  a  strange  and  awful  scene  : 
One  guilty  bosom  throbs  no  more, 
And  Otho's  pangs  and  life  are  o'er. 
And  thou,  ere  yet  another  sun 
His  burning  race  hath  brightly  run, 
Released  from  anguish  by  thy  foes, 
Daughter  of  Rome  !  shall  find  repose. — 
Yes  !  on  thy  country's  lovely  sky 
Fix  yet  once  more  thy  parting  eye  ! 
A  few  short  hours — and  all  shall  be 
The  silent  and  the  past  for  thee. 
Oh  !  thus  with  tempests  of  a  day 
We  struggle,  and  we  pass  away, 
Like  the  wild  billows  as  they  sweep, 
Leaving  no  vestige  on  the  deep ' 
And  o'er  thy  dark  and  lowly  bed 
The  sons  of  future  days  shall  tread, 
The  pangs,  the  conflicts  of  thy  lot, 
By  them  unknown,  by  thee  forgot. 


DARTMOOR. 

A  PRIZE   POEM. 

AMIDST  the  peopled  and  the  regal  Isle, 
Whose  vales,  rejoicing  in  their  beauty,  smile? , 
Whose  cities,  fearless  of  the  spoiler,  tower, 
And  send  on  every  breeze  a  voice  of  power  ; 
Hath  Desolation  rear'd  herself  a  throne, 
And  mark'd  a  pathless  region  for  her  own? 
Yes !  though  thy  turf  no  stain  of  carnage  wore, 
When  bled  the  noble  hearts  of  many  a  shore, 
Though  not  a  hostile  step  thy  heath-flowers  bent, 
When  empires  totter'd  and  the  earth  was  rent ; 
Yet  lone,  as  if  some  trampler  of  mankind 
Had  stili'd  life's  busy  murmurs  on  the  wind, 
And,  flushed  with  power,  in  daring  pride's  excess, 
Stamp'd  on  thy  soil  the  curse  of  barrenness  ; 
For  thee  in  vain  descend  the  dews  of  heaven, 
In  vain  the  sunbeam  and  the  shower  are  given  ; 
Wild   Dartmoor!    thou  that,   'midst   thy  moun- 
tains rude, 

Hast  robed  thyself  with  haughty  solitude, 
Asa  dark  cloud  on  summer's  clear  blue  sky, 
A  mourner  circled  with  festivity! 
For  all  beyond  is  life  ! — the  rolling  sea, 
The  rush,   the  swell,  whose    echoes    reach  not 

thee, 

Vet  who  shall  find  a  scene  so  wild  and  bare, 
Bat-  man  has  left  his  lingering  traces  there  ? 


(83) 

F/en  on  mysterious  Afric's  boundless  plains, 
Where  noon  with  attributes  of  midnight  reigns. 
In  gloom  and  silence,  fearfully  profound, 
As  of  a  world  unwaked  to  soul  or  sound, 
Though  the  sad  wand'rer  of  the  burning  zone 
Peels,  as  amidst  infinity,  alone, 
And  nought  of  life  be  near  ;  his  camel's  tread 
Is  o'er  the  prostrate  cities  of  the  dead  ! 
Some  column,  reard  by  long-forgotten  hands, 
Just  lifts  its  head  above  the  billowy  sands — 
Some  mouldering  shrine  still  consecrates  the  scene, 
And  tells  that  glory's  footstep  there  hath  been. 
There  hath  the  spirit  of  the  mighty  pass'd, 
Not  without  record ;  though  the  desert  blast, 
Borne  on  the  wings  of  Time,  hath  SAvept  away 
The  proud  creations  rear'd  to  brave  decay. 
But  thou,  lone  region !  whose  unnoticed  name 
No  lofty  deeds  have  mingled  with  their  fame, 
Who  shall  unfold  thine  annals  ? — who  shall  tell 
If  on  thy  soil  the  sons  of  heroes  fell, 
In  those  far  ages,  which  left  no  trace, 
No  sunbeam,  on  the  pathway  of  their  race  ? 
Though,  haply,  in  the  unrecorded  days 
Of  kings  and  chiefs,  who  pass'd  without  their 

praise, 
Thou  might'st  have  rear'd  the  valiant  and  the 

free ; 
In  history's  page  there  is  no  tale  of  thee. 

Yet  hast  thou  thy  memorials.     On  the  wild 
Still  rise  the  cairns  of  yore,  all  rudely  piled, 
But  hallow'd  by  that  instinct  which  reveres 
Things  fraught  with  characters  of  elder  years. 


(84) 

And  such  are  these.     Long  centuries  are  flown, 
Bow'd  many  a  crest,  and  shatter'd  many  a  throne, 
Mingling  the  urn, the  trophy,  and  the  bust, 
With  what  they  hide — their  shrined  and  treas- 
ured dust ; 

Men  traverse  Alps  and  oceans,  to  behold 
Earth's  glorious  works  fast  mingling  with    her 

mould  ; 

But  still  these  nameless  chronicles  of  death, 
'Midst  the  deep  silence  of  the  unpeopled  heath, 
Stand  in  primeval  artlessness,  and  wear 
The  same  sepulchral  mien,  and  almost  share 
Th'  eternity  of  nature,  with  the  forms 
Of  the  crown'd  hills  beyond,  the  dwellings  of 
the  storms. 

Yet,  what  avails  it,  if  each  moss-grown  heap 
Still  on  the  waste  its  lonely  vigils  keep, 
Guarding  the  dust  which  slumbers  well  beneath 
(Nor  needs  such  care)  from  each  cold  season's 

breath  ? 

Where  is  the  voice  to  tell  their  tale  who  rest, 
Thus  rudely  pillow'd  on  the  desert's  breast  ? 
Doth  the  sword  sleep  beside  them  ?     Hath  there 

been 

A  sound  of  battle  'midst  the  silent  scene 
Where  now  the  flocks  repose  ? — did  the  scythed 

car 

Here  reap  its  harvest  in  the  ranks  of  war? 
And  raise  these  piles  in  memory  of  the  slain, 
And  the  red  combat  of  the  mountain-plain  ? 

It  may  be  thus : — the  vestiges  of  strife, 
Around  yet  lingering,  mark  the  steps  of  life. 


(85) 

And  the  rude  arrow's  barb  remains  to  tell 
How  by  its  stroke,  perchance,  the  mighty  fell 
To  be  forgotten.     Vain  the  warrior's  pride, 
The  chieftain's  power — they  had  no  bard,  and 

died. 

But  other  scenes,  from  their  untroubled  sphere, 
The  eternal  stars  of  night  have  witness'd  here. 
There  stands  an  altar  of  unsculptured  stone, 
Far  on  the  moor,  a  thing  of  ages  gone, 
Propp'd  on  its  granite  pillars,  whence  the  rains, 
And  pure  bright  dews,  have  laved  the  crimson 

stains 

Left  by  dark  rites  of  blood :  for  here,  of  yore, 
When  the  bleak  waste  a  robe  of  forest  wore, 
And  many  a  crested  oak,  which  now  lies  low, 
Waved  its  wild  wreath  of  sacred  mistletoe  ; 
Here,  at  dead  midnight,  through  the  haunted 

shade, 

On  Druid-harps  the  quivering  moonbeam  play'd 
And  spells  were  breath'd,   that  fill'd  the  deep- 
ening gloom 

With  the  pale,  shadowy  people  of  the  tomb. 
Or,  haply,  torches  waving  through  the  night, 
Bade  the  red  cairn-fires  blaze  from  every  height, 
Like  battle-signals,  whose  unearthly  gleams 
Threw    o'er    the    desert's    hundred     hills    and 

streams, 

A  savage  grandeur  :  while  the  starry  skies 
Rung  with  the  peal  of  mystic  harmonies, 
As  the  loud  harp  its  deep-toned  hymns  sent  forth 
To  the  storm-ruling  powers,  the  war-gods  of  the 
North. 
8 


(86) 

But  wilder  sounds  were  there ;  th'  imploring 

cry 

That  woke  the  forest's  echo  in  reply, 
But  not  the  heart's! — Unmoved,  the  wizard  train 
Stood  round  their  human  victim,  and  in  vain 
His  prayer  for  mercy  rose  ;  in  vain  his  glance 
Look'd  up.  appealing  to  the  blue  expanse, 
Where,  in  their  calm,  immortal  beauty,  shone 
Heaven's  cloudless  orbs.     With  faint  and  fainter 

moan, 

Bound  on  the  shrine  of  sacrifice  he  lay, 
Till,  drop  by  drop,  life's  current  ebb'd  away ; 
Till  rock  and  turf  grew  deeply,  darkly  red, 
And  the  pale  moon  gleanl'd  paler  on  the  dead. 
Have  such  things  been,  and  here  ? — where  still- 
ness dwells 

'Midst  the  rude  barrows  and  the  moorland  swells, 
Thus  undisturb'd  ? — Oh  !  long  the  gulf  of  time 
Hath  closed  in  darkness  o'er  those  days  of 

crime. 

And  earth  no  vestige  of  their  path  retains, 
Save  such  as  these,  which  strew  her  loneliest 

plains 

With  records  of  man's  conflicts  and  his  doom. 
His  spirit  and  his  dust — the  altar  and  the  tomb 
But  ages  roll'd  away ;  and  England  stood, 
With  her  proud  banner  streaming  o'er  the  flood 
And  with  a  lofty  calmness  in  her  eye, 
And  regal  in  collected  majesty, 
To  breast  the  storm  of  battle.     Every  breeze 
Bore  sounds  of  triumph  o'er  her  own  blue  seas; 
And  other  lands,  redeem'd  and  joyous,  drank 
The  life-blood  of  her  heroes,  as  they  sank 


(87). 

On  the  red  fields  they  won ;  whose  wild  flowers 

wave 
Now  in  luxuriant  beauty,  o'er  their  grave. 

'Twas  then  the  captives  of  Britannia's  war, 
Here  for  their  lovely  southern  climes  afar 
In  bondage  pined  :  the  spell-deluded  throng 
Dragg'd  at  ambition's  chariot-wheels  so  long 
To  die — because  a  despot  could  not  clasp 
A  sceptre,  fitted  to  his  boundless  grasp! 

Yes  !    they   whose    march    had    rock'd    the 

ancient  thrones 

And  temples  of  the  world  ;  the  deepening  tones 
Of  whose  advancing  trnmpet,  from  repose 
Had  startled  nations,  wakening  to  their  woes  ; 
Were    prisoners    here. — And    there    were    some 

whose  dreams 

Were  of  sweet  homes,  by  chainless  mountain- 
streams, 

And  of  the  vine-clad  hills,  and  many  a  strain 
And  festal  melody  of  Loire  or  Seine, 
And   of  those  mothers  who  had  watch 'd  and 

wept, 
When    on   the    field    the    unshelter'd  conscript 

slept, 
Bathed  with    the    midnight   dews.     And  some 

were 

Of  sterner  spirits,  harden'd  by  despair; 
Who,,  in  their  dark  imaginings,  again 
Fired  the  rich  palace  and  the  stately  fane, 
Drank  in  the  victim's  shriek,  as  music's  breath, 
And  lived  o'er  scenes,  the  festivals -of  death  ! 


(88) 

And    there    was    mirth,    too ! — strange    and 

savage  mirth, 

More  fearful  far  than  all  the  woes  of  earth ! 
The    laughter  of  cold   hearts,   and  scoffs  that 

spring 

From  minds  for  which  there  is  no  sacred  thing, 
And  transient  bursts  of  fierce,  exulting  glee — 
The  lightning's  flash  upon  its  blasted  tree ! 

Bat  still,  howe'er  the  soul's  disguise  was  worn, 
If,  from  wild  revelry,  or  haughty  scorn, 
Or  buoyant  hope,  it  won  an  outward  show, 
Slight  was  the  mask,  and  all  beneath  it — woe. 

Yet,  was  this  all  ?  amidst  the  dungeon-gloom, 
The  void,  the  stillness,  of  the  captive's  doom, 
Were  there  no  deeper  thoughts  ? — and  that  dark 

power, 

To  whom  guilt  owes  one  late  but  dreadful  hour, 
The  mighty  debt  through  years  of  crime  delay'd, 
But,  as  the  grave's,  inevitably  paid  ; 
Came  he  not  thither,  in  his  burning  force, 
The  lord,  the  tamer  of  dark  souls — remorse  ? 

Yes  !  as  the  night  calls  forth  from  sea  and  sky, 
From  breeze  and  wood,  a  solemn  harmony, 
Last,  when  the  swift,  triumphant  wheels  of  day, 
In  light  and  sound,  are  hurrying  on  their  way 
Thus,  from  the  deep  recesses  of  the  heart, 
The  voice  which  sleeps,  but  never  dies,  rmghf 

start, 

Call'd  up  by  solitude,  each  nerve  to  thrill 
With  accents  heard  not,  save  when  all  is  still ' 


(89) 

The  voice,  inaudible  when  havoc's  train 
Crush'd  the  red  vintage  of  devoted  Spain  ; 
Mute,  when  sierras  to  the  war-whoop  rung, 
And  the  broad  light  of  conflagration  sprung 
From  the  south's  marble  cities  ; — hush'd  'midst 

cries 

That  told  the  heavens  of  mortal  agonies ; 
-But  gathering  silent  strength,  to  wake  at  last 
In  concentrated  thunders  of  the  past ! 

And  there,  perchance,   some  long-bewilder'd 

mind, 

Torn  from  its  lowly  sphere,  its  path  confined 
Of  village  duties,  in  the  Alpine  glen, 
Where  nature  cast  its  lot,  'midst  peasant-men  ; 
Drawn  to  that  vortex,  whose  fierce  ruler  blent 
The  earthquake  power  of  each  wild  element, 
To  lend  the  tide,  which  bore  his  throne  on  high, 
One  impulse  more  of  desperate  energy ; 
Might — when  the  billow's  awful  rush  was  o'er, 
Which  toss'd  its  wreck  upon  the  storm-beat  shore, 
Won  from  its  wand'rings  past,  by  sufferings  tried, 
Search'd  by  remorse,  by  anguish  purified — 
Have  fix'd,  at  length,  its  troubled  hopes  and  fears, 
On  the  far  world,   seen  brightest  through  our 

tears, 

And,  in  that  hour  of  triumph  or  despair, 
Whose  secrets  all  must  learn,  but  none  declare, 
When  of  the  things  to  come,  a  deeper  sense 
Fills  the  dim  eye  of  trembling  penitence, 
Have  turn'd  to  Him  whose  bow  is  in  the  cloua. 
Around  life's  limits  gathering,  as  a  shroud  ; — 
8* 


(90) 

The  fearful  mysteries  of  the  heart  who  knows, 
And,  by  the  tempest,  calls  it  to  repose ! 

Who  visited  that  deathbed  ? — Who  can  tell 
Its   brief,  sad  tale,   on  which    the    soul    might 

dwell, 

And  learn  immortal  lessons  ? — who  beheld 
The    struggling    hope,    by    shame,    by   douH 

repell'd — 

The  agony  of  prayer — the  bursting  tears — 
The  dark  remembrances  of  guilty  years, 
'Crowding  upon  the  spirit  in  their  might  ? 
He,  through  the  storm  who  look'd,  and  there 

was  light  ! 

That  scene  is  closed ! — that  wild,  tumultuous 

breast, 

With  all  its  pangs  and  passions,  is  at  rest ! 
He  too,  is  fallen,  the  master-power  of  strife 
Who  woke  those  passions  to  delirious  life ; 
And  days,  prepared  a  brighter  course  to  run, 
Unfold  their  buoyant  pinions  to  the  sun  ! 

It  is  a  glorious  hour  when  Spring  goes  forth 
O'er  the  bleak  mountains  of  the  shadowy  north, 
And  with  one  radiant  glance,  one  magic  breath, 
Wakes  all  things  lovely  from  the  sleep  of  death > 
While  the  glad  voices  of  a  thousand  streams, 
Bursting  their  bondage,  triumph  in  her  beams ! 

But  PEACE  hath  nobler  changes !      O'er  the 

mind, 
The  warm  and  living  spirit  of  mankind, 


(91) 

Her  influence  breathes,  and    bids  the  bJghted 

heart, 

To  life  and  hope  from  desolation  start ! 
She,  with  a  look,  dissolves  the  captive's  chain, 
Peopling  with  beauty  widow'd  homes  again ; 
Around  the  mother,  in  her  closing  years, 
Gathering    her    sons   once  more,  and  from  the 

tears 

Of  the  dim  past,  but  winning  purer  light, 
To  make  the  present  more  serenely  bright. 

Nor  rests  that  influence  here.     From  clime  to 

clime, 

In  silence  gliding  with  the  stream  of  time, 
Still  doth  it  spread,  borne  onwards,  a?  a  breeze 
With  healing  on  its  wings,  o'er  isles  and  seas : 
And,  as  Heaven's  breath  call'd  forth,  with  genial 

power, 

From  the  dry  wand,  the  almond's  living  flower ; 
So  doth  its  deep-felt  charm  in  secret  move 
The  coldest  heart  to  gentle  deeds  of  love  : 
While  round  its  pathway  nature  softly  glows, 
And  the  wide  desert  blossoms  as  the  rose. 

Yes !  let  the  waste  lift  up  the  exulting  voice  ! 
Let  the  far-echoing  solitude  rejoice  ! 
And  thou,  lone  moor!  where  no  blithe  reaper's 

song 

E'er  lightly  sped  the  summer  hours  along, 
Bid  thy  wild  rivers,  from  each  mountain-source 
Rushing  in  joy,  make  music,  on  their  course ! 
Thou,  whose  sole  records  of  existence  mark 
The  scene  of  barbarous  rites,  in  ages  dark 


(92) 

And  of  some  nameless  combat :  hope's  bright  eye 
Beams  o'er  thee  in  the  light  of  prophecy ! 
Yet  shalt  thou  smile,  by  busy  culture  drest, 
And  the  rich  harvest  wave  upon  thy  breast ! 
Yet  shall  thy  cottage  smoke,  at  dewy  morn, 
Rise,  in  blue  wreaths,  above  the  flowering  thorn, 
And,  'midst  thy  hamlet  shades,  the  embosom'd 

spire 
Catch  from  deep-kindling  heavens  their  earliest 

fire. 

'  Thee   too  that  hour  shall  bless,   the  balmy 

close 

Of  labor's  day,  the  herald  of  repose, 
Which   gathers  hearts    in   peace ;    while    social 

mirth 

Basks  in  the  blaze  of  each  free  village  hearth  j 
While  peasant-songs  are  on  the  joyous  gales, 
And  merry  England's  voice  floats  up  from  ail 

her  vales. 
Yet  are   there  sweeter  sounds  j  and  thou  shalt 

hear 

Such  as  to  Heaven's  immortal  hosts  are  dear. 
Oh !  if  there  still  be  melody  on  earth, 
Worthy  the  sacred    bowers   where    man    dre\v 

birth, 

When  angel-steps  their  paths  rejoicing  trode, 
And  the  air  trembled  with  the  breath  of  God ; 
It  lives  in  those  soft  accents  to  the  sky 
Borne  from  the  lips  of  stainless  infancy, 
When  holy  strains,  from  life's  pure  font  which 

sprung, 
Breathed  with  deep  reverence,  falter  on  its  tongue. 


(93) 

And  such  shall  be  thy  music,  when  the  ceils, 
Where    Guilt,    the    child    of    hopeless    Misery, 

dwells, 

(And,  to  wild  strength  by  desperation  wrought. 
In  silence  broods  o'er  many  a  fearful  thought,) 
Resound  to  pity's  voicp  ;  and  childhood  thence, 
Ere  the  cold  blight  hath  reached  its  innocence, 
Ere  that  soft  rose-bloom  of  the  soul  be  fled, 
Which  vice  but  breathes  on,  and  its  hues  are 

dead, 

Shall  at  the  call  press  forward,  to  be  made 
A  glorious  offering,  meet  for  him  who  said, 
"  Mercy,  not  sacrifice  !  "  and  when,  of  old, 
Clouds  of  rich  incense  from  his  altars  roll'd, 
Dispersed  the  smoke  of  perfumes,  and  laid  bare 
The  heart's  deep  folds,  to  read  its  homage  there  ! 

When  some  crown'd  conqueror,  o'er  a  trampled 

world 

His  banner,  shadowing  nations,  hath  unfurl'd, 
And.  like  those  visitations  which  deform 
Nature  for  centuries,  hath  made  the  storm 
His  pathway  to  dominion's  lonely  sphere, 
Silence  behind — before  him  flight  and  fear ; 
When     kingdoms    rock    beneath    his    rushing 

wheels, 

Till  each  fair  isle  the  mighty  impulse  feels, 
And  earth  is  moulded  but  by  one  proud  will, 
And  sceptred  realms  wear  fetters,  and  are  still  j 
Shall  the  free  soul  of  song  bow  down  to  pay, 
The  earthquake  homage  on  its  baleful  way  ? 
Shall  the  glad  harp  send  up  exulting  strains 
O'er  burning  cities  and  forsaken  plains  ? 


(94) 

And  shall  no  harmony  of  softer  close 
Attend  the  stream  of  mercy  as  it  flows, 
And,  mingling  with  the  murmur  of  its  wave, 
Bless  the  green  shores  its  gentle  currents  lave  ? 

Oh !  there  are  loftier  themes,  for  him  whose 

eyes 

Have  searched  the  depths  of  life's  realities, 
Than  the  red  battle,  or  the  trophied  car, 
Wheeling  the  monarch-victor  fast  and  far ; 
There  are  more  noble  strains  than  those  which 

swell 
The  triumphs,  ruin  may  suffice  to  tell ! 

Ye  prophet-bards,  who  sat  in  elder  days 
Beneath  the  palms  of  Judah  !     Ye  whose  lays 
With  torrent  rapture,  from  their  source  on  high, 
Burst  in  the  strength  of  immortality ! 
Oh  !  not  alone,  those  haunted  groves  among, 
Of  conquering   hosts,    of  empires    crnsh'd,    ye 

sung, 

But  of  that  spirit,  destined  to  explore 
With  the  bright  day-spring  every  distant  shore, 
To  dry  the  tear,  to  bind  the  broken  reed, 
To  make  the  home  of  peace    in    hearts   that 

bleed  ; 
With  beams  of  home  to  pierce  the  dungeon's 

gloom, 
And  pour  eternal  star-light  o'er  the  tomb. 

And  bless'd  and  hallow'd  be  its  haunts !  for 

there 
flath  man's  high  soul  been  rescued  from  despair' 


(95) 

There  hath  the  immortal  spark  for  Heaven  been 

nursed ; 
There  from  the  rock   the  springs  of  life  have 

burst, 
Quenchless  and  pure !  and  holy  thoughts  thai 

rise, 

Warm  from  the  source  of  human  sympathies- 
Where'er  its  path  of  radiance  may  be  traced, 
Shall  find  their  temples  in  the  silent  waste. 


PROPERZIA   ROSSI. 


ONE  dream  of  passion  and  of  beauty  more ! 
And  in  its  bright  fulfillment  let  me  pour 
My  soul  away !     Let  earth  retain  a  trace 
Of  that  which  lit  my  being,  though  its  race 
Might    have    been   loftier  far. — Yet  one  more 

dream ! 

From  my  deep  spirit  one  victorious  gleam 
Ere  I  depart !     For  thee  alone,  for  thee  ! 
May  this  last  work,  this  farewell  triumph  be 
Thou,    loved   so   vainly !      I  would   leave   en- 
shrined 

Something  immortal  of  my  heart  and  mind, 
That  yet  may  speak  to  thee  when  I  am  gone, 
Shaking  thine  inmost  bosom  with  a  tone 
Of  lost  affection  ; — something  that  may  prove 
\Vhat  sne  hath  been,  whoso  melancholy  love 


(90) 

On  thee  was  lavish'd ;  silent  pang  and  tear, 
And  fervent  song  that  gush'd  when  none  wer« 

near, 

And  dream  by  night,  and  weary  thought  by  day, 
Stealing  the  brightness  from  her  life  away, — 

While  thou Awake  !  not  yet  within  me  die, 

Under  the  burden  and  the  agony 

Of  this  vain  tenderness, — my  spirit,  wake  ! 

Ev'n  for  thy  sorrowful  affection's  sake, 

Live !  in  thy  work  breathe  out ! — that  he  may 

yet, 

Feeling  sad  mastery  there,  perchance  regret 
Thine  unrequited  gift. 

II. 

It  comes, — the  power 

Within  me  born,  flows  back  ;  my  fruitless  dower, 
That  could  not  win  me  love.     Yet  once  again 
I  greet  it  proudly,  with  its  rushing  train 
Of  glorious  images : — they  throng — they  press — 
A  sudden  joy  lights  up  my  loneliness, 
I  shall  not  perish  all ! 

The  bright  work  grows 
Beneath  my  hand,  unfolding,  as  a  rose, 
Leaf  after  leaf,  to  beauty  ;  line  by  line, 
I  fix  my  thought,  heart,  soul,  to  burn,  to  shine, 
Through  the  pale  marble's  veins.     It  grows — 

and  now 

I  give  my  own  life's  history  to  thy  brow, 
Forsaken  Ariadne  !  thou  shalt  wear 
My  form,  my  lineaments  ;  but  oh  !  more  fair. 


(97) 

Touch 'd  into  lovelier  being  by  the  glow 

Which  in  me  dwells,  as  by  the  summer-light 
All  things  are  glorified.     From  thee  my  woe 
Shall  yet  look  beautiful  to  meet  his  sight, 
When  I  am  pass'd  away.     Thou  art  the  mould 
Wherein  I  pour  the  fervent  thoughts,  th'  untold, 
The  self-consuming !     Speak  to  him  of  me, 
Thou,  the  deserted  by  the  lonely  sea, 
With  the  soft  sadness  of  thine  earnest  eye, 
Speak  to  him,  lone  one !  deeply,  mournfully, 
Of  all  my  love  and  grief!     Oh  !  could  I  throw 
Into  thy  frame  a  voice,  a  sweet,  and  low, 
And  thrilling  voice    of  song  !    when  he  came 

nigh, 

To  send  the  passion  of  its  melody 
Through  his  pierced  bosom — on  its  tones  to  bear 
My  life's  deep  feeling,  as  the  southern  air 
Wafts  the  faint  myrtle's  breath, — to  rise,  to  swell, 
To  sink  away  in  accents  of  farewell, 
Winning  but  one,  one  gush  of  tears,  whose  flow 
Surely  my  parted  spirit  yet  might  know, 
If  love  be  strong  as  death  ! 


m. 

Now  fair  thou  art, 

Thou  form,  whose  life  is  of  my  burning  heart ! 
Yet  all  the  vision  that  within  me  wrought, 
It   cannot   make   thee !     Oh !   I  might  have 

given 

Birth  to  creations  of  far  nobler  thought, 
I  might  have  kindled,  with  the  fire  of  heaven, 
9 


(98) 

Things  not  of  such  as  die  !     But  I  have  been 
Too  much  alone  ;  a  heart  whereon  to  lean, 
With  all  these  deep  affections,  that  o'erflow 
My  aching  soul,  and  find  no  shore  below  ; 
An  eye  to  be  my  star,  a  voice  to  bring 
Hope  o'er  my  path,  like  sounds  that  breathe  of 

spring, 

These  are  denied  me — dreamt  of  still  in  vain, — 
Therefore  my  brief  aspirings  from  the  chain, 
Are  ever  but  some  wild  and  fitful  song, 
Rising  triumphantly,  to  die  ere  long 
In  dirge-like  echoes. 

IV. 

Yet  the  world  will  see 
Little  of  this,  my  parting  work,  in  thee, 

Thou  shall  have  fame  !     Oh,  mockery !  give 

the  reed 

From  storms  a  shelter, — give  the  drooping  vine 
Something   round   which    its   tendrils  may  en- 
twine,— 
Give  the  garch'd  flower  a  rain  drop,  and  the 

meed 
Of  love's  kind  words  to  woman !      Worthless 

fame ! 

That  in  his  bosom  wins  not  for  my  name 
Th'  abiding-place  it  ask'd  !     Yet  how  my  heart, 
In  its  own  fairy  world  of  song  and  art, 
Once  beat  for  praise  ! — Are  those  high  longings 

o'er! 

That  which  I  have  been  can  I  be  no  more  ? — 
Never,  oh  !  never  more  ;  though  still  thy  sky 
He  blue  as  then,  my  glorious  Italy ! 


(99) 

Aud  though  the  music,  whose  rich  breathings  fill 
Thine  air  with  soul,  be  wandering  past  me  still, 
And  though  the  mantle  of  thy  sunlight  stream?, 
Unchanged  on  forms,  instinct  with  poet  dreams ; 
Never,  oh  !  never  more  !  where'er  I  move, 
The  shadow  of  this  broken-hearted  love 
Is  on  me  and  around  !     Too  well  they  know, 

Whose  life  is  all  within,  too  soon  and  well, 
When  there  the  blight  hath  settled  ; — but  I  go 

Under  the  silent  wings  of  peace  to  dwell ; 
From  the  slow  wasting,  from  the  lonely  pain, 
The  inward  burning  of  those  words — in  vain," 

Sear'd  on  the  heart — I  go.     'Twill  soon  be 

past. 
Sunshine,  and  song,  and  bright  Italian  heaven, 

And  thou,  oh  !  thou  on  Avhom  my  spirit  cast 
Unvalued  wealth, — who  know'st  not  what  was 

given 

In  that  devotedness, — the  sad,  and  deep, 
And  unrepaid — farewell !     If  I  could  weep 
Once,  only  once,  beloved  one  !  on  thy  breast, 
Pouring  my  heart  forth  ere  I  sink  to  rest ! 
But  that  were  happiness,  and  unto  me 
Earth's  gift  is  fame.     Yet  I  was  form'd  to  bo 
So  richly  blest !     With  thee  to  watch  the  sky, 
Speaking  not,  feeling  but  that  thou  wert  nigh  ; 
With  thee  to  listen,  while  the  tones  of  song 
Swept  ev'n  as  part  of  our  sweet  air  along, 
To  listen  silently  ; — with  thee  to  gaze 
On  forms,  the  deified  of  oWen  days, 
This  had  been  joy  enough  ;  and  hour  by  hour, 
From    its    glad   well-springs    drinking    life    and 
power. 


(100) 

How  had  my  spirit  soar'd,  and  made  its  fame 
A  glory  for  thy  brow ! — Dreams,  dreams  ! — 

the  fire 
Burns  faint  within  me.    Yet  I  leave  my  name — 

As  a  deep  thrill  may  linger  on  the  lyre 
When  its  full  chords  are  hush'd — awhile  to  live. 
And  one  day  haply  in  thy  heart  revive 
Sad  thoughts  of  me  : — I  leave  it,  with  a  sound, 
A  spell  o'er  memory,  mournfully  profound, 
I  leave  it,  on  my  country's  air  to  dwell, — 
Say  proudly  yet — "  'TWAS  HERS  WHO  LOVED  ME 
WELL  !  " 


ELYSIUM. 

FAIR  wert  thou  in  the  dreams 
Of  elder  time,  thou  land  of  glorious  flowers 
And  summer  winds  and  low-toned  silvery  streams 
Dim  with  the  shadows  of  thy  laurel  bowers, 

Where,  as  they  pass'd,  bright  hours 
Left  no  vain  sense  of  parting,  such  as  clings 
To  earthly  love,  and  joy  in  loveliest  things ! 

Fair  wert  thou  with  the  light 
On  thy  blue  hills  and  sleepy  waters  cast 
From  purple  skies  ne'er  deep'ning  into  night, 
Yet  soft,  as  if  each  moment  were  their  last 

Of  glory,  fading  fast 

Along  the  mountains ! — but  thy  golden  day 
Was  not  as  those  that  warn  us  of  decay 


(101) 

And  ever,  through  thy  shades, 
A  swell  of  deep  JDolian  sound  went  by, 
Prom  fountain-voices  in  their  secret  glades, 
And  low  reed-whispers,  making  sweet  reply 

To  summer's  breezy  sigh, 
And  young  leaves  trembling  to  the  winds  light 

breath, 

Which  ne'er  had  tonch'd  them  with  a  hue  of 
death  ! 

And  the  transparent  sky 
Rung  as  a  dome,  all  thrilling  to  the  strain 
Of  harps  that,  'midst  the  woods,  made  harmony 
Solemn  and  sweet ;  yet  troubling  not  the  brain 

With  dreams  and  yearnings  vain, 
And  dim  remembrances,  that  still  draw  birth 
From  the  be  wild 'ring  music  of  the  earth. 

And  who,  with  silent  tread, 
Moved  o'er  the  plains  of  asphodel  ? 
Call'd  from  the  dim  procession  of  the  dead, 
Who,    'midst    the    shadowy    amaranth-bowers 
might  dwell, 

And  listen  to  the  swell 
Of  those  majestic  hymn-notes,  and  inhale 
The  spirit  wandering  in  the  immortal  gale  ? 

They  of  the  sword,  whose  praise,    [round ! 
Witn  the  bright  wine  at  nations'  feasts,  went 
They  of  the  lyre,  whose  unforgotten  lays 
forth  on  the  winds  had  sent  their  mighty  sound. 

And  in  all  regiong  found 
9* 


(102) 

Their  echoes  'midst  the  mountains ! — and  become 
In  man's  deep  heart  as  voices  of  his  home ! 

They  of  the  daring  thought ! 
Daring  and  powerful,  yet  to  dust  allied — 
Whose  flight  through  stars,  and  seas,  and  depths 

had  sought 
The  soul's  fair  birth-place — but  without  a  guide  ! 

Sages  and  seers,  who  died, 

And  left  the  world  their  high  mysterious  dreams, 
Born  'midst  the  olive  woods,  by  Grecian  streams. 

But  the  most  loved  are  they 
Of  whom  fame  speaks  not  with  her  clarion  voice, 
In  regal  halls! — the  shades  o'erhang  their  way, 
The  vale,  with  its  deep  fountains,  is  their  choice, 

And  gentle  hearts  rejoice 
Around  their  steps  ;  till  silently  they  die, 
As  a  stream  shrinks  from  summer's  burning  eye. 

And  these — of  whose  abode, 
'Midst  her  green  valleys  earth  retain'd  no  trace, 
Save  a  flower  springing  from  their  burial-sod, 
A  shade  of  sadness  on  some  kindred  face, 

A  dim  and  vacant  place  [for  these, 

In  some'  sweet  home; — thou  hast  no  wreaths 
Thou  sunny  land  !  with  all  thy  deathless  trees ! 

The  peasant  at  his  door 

Might  sink  to  die  when  vintage  feasts  were  spread, 
And  songs  on  every  wind !  From  thy  bright  shore 
No  lovelier  vision  floated  round  his  head — 

Thou  wert  for  nobler  dead  ! 


(103) 

He  heard  the  bounding  steps  which  round  him 

fell, 
And  sigh'd  to  bid  the  festal  sun  farewell ! 

The  slave,  whose  very  tears 
Were  a  forbidden  luxury,  and  whose  breast 
Kept  the  mute  woes  and  burning  thoughts  of 

years, 
As  embers  in  a  burial-urn  compress'd  ; 

He  might  not  be  thy  guest ! 
No  gentle  breathings  from  thy  distant  sky 
Came  o'er  his  path,  and  whisper'd  "  Liberty.  " 

Calm,  on  its  leaf  strewn  bier, 
Unlike  a  gift  of  Nature  to  Decay, 
Too  rose-like  still,  too  beautiful,  too  dear, 
The  child  at  rest  before  the  mother  lay, 

E'en  so  to  pass  away, 
With    its    bright  smile! — Elysium!  what  weit 

thou 

To  her,  who  wept  o'er  that  young  slumb'rer's 
brow  ? 

Thou  hadst  no  home,  green  land ! 
For  the  fair  creature  from  her  bosom  gone, 
With    life's    fresh   flowers  just   opening  in   \ia 

hand, 

And    all    the    lovely  thoughts  and  dreams  un- 
known 

Which,  in  its  clear  eye,  shone 
Like  spring's  first  wakening  !  but  that  light  was 

past — 
Wliere  went  the  dew  drop  swept  before  the  blast  ' 


(104) 

Not  where  thy  soft  winds  play'd, 
Not  where  thy  waters  lay  in  glassy  sleep ! 
Fade  with  thy  bowers,  thou  Land  of  Visions, 

fade! 
From  Ihee  no  voice  came  o'er  the  gloomy  deep, 

And  bade  man  cease  to  weep ! 
Fade,  with  the  amaranth  plain,  the  myrtle  grove, 
Which  could  not  yield  one  hope  to  sorrowing  love. 


THE  DEATH  OF  CONRADIN. 

No  cloud  to  dim  the  splendor  of  the  day 
Which  breaks  o'er  Naples  and  her  lovely  bay, 
And  lights  that  brilliant  sea  and  magic  shore 
With  every  tint  that  charm'd  the  great  of  yore  ; 
Th'  imperial  ones  of  earth — who  proudly  bade 
Their  marble  domes  e'en  Ocean's  realm  invade. 

That  race  is  gone — but  glorious  Nature  here 
Maintains  unchanged  her  own  sublime  career, 
And  bids  these  regions  of  the  suns  display 
Bright  hues,  surviving  empires  pass'd  away. 

The  beam  of  Heaven  expands — its  kindling 

smile 

Re  A' sals  each  charm  of  many  a  fairy  isle, 
Wh  :se  image  floats,  in  softer  coloring  drest, 
With  all  its  rocks  and  vines>  on  Ocean's  breast 
Misenum's  cape  hath  sought  the  vivid  ray, 
On  Roman  streamers  there  no  more  to  play  ; 
Still,  as  of  old,  unalterably  bright, 
Lovely  it  sleeps  on  Posilippo's  height, 


"(105) 

With  all  Italia's  sunshine  to  illume 
The  ilex  canopy  of  Virgil's  tomb. 
Campania's  plains  rejoice  in  light,  and  spread 
Their  gay  luxuriance  o'er  the  mighty  dead  ; 
Fair  glittering  to  thine  own  transparent  skies, 
Thy  palaces,  exulting  Naples  !  rise  ; 
While,  far  on  high,  Vesuvius  rears  his  peak, 
Furrow'd  and  dark  with  many  a  lava  streak. 

Oh,  ye  bright  shores  of  Circe  and  the  Muse  ! 
Rich  with  all  Nature's  and  all  fiction's  hues  ; 
W1io  shall  explore  your  regions,  and  declare 
The  poet  err'd  to  paint  Elysium  there  ? 
Call  up  his  spirit,  wanderer  !  bid  him  guide 
Thy  steps,  those  siren-haunted  seas  beside ; 
And  all  the  scene  a  lovelier  light  shall  wear, 
And  spells  more  potent  shall  pervade  the  air. 
What  though  his  dust  be  scatter'd,  and  his  lirn 
Long  from  its  sanctuary  of  slumber  torn, 
Still  dwell  the  beings  of  his  verse  around, 
Hovering  in  beauty  o'er  th'  enchanted  ground : 
His  lays  are  murmur'd  in  each  breeze  that  rovea 
Soft  o'er  the  sunny  waves  and  orange  groves : 
His  memory's  charm  is  spread  o'er  shore  and  sea, 
The  soul,  the  genius  of  Parthenope  ; 
Shedding  o'er  myrtle  shade  and  vine-clad  hill 
The  purple  radiance  of  Elysium  still. 

Yet  that  fair  soil  and  calm  resplendent  sky 
Have  witness'd  many  a  dark  reality. 
Oft  o'er  those  bright    blue   seas  the  gale  hath 

borne 

The  sighs  of  exiles  never  to  return. 
There  with  the  whisper  of  Campania's  gale 
Hath  mingled  oft  affection's  funeral  wail, 


(100) 

Mourning  for  buried  heroes — while  to  her 
That  glowing  land  was  but  their  sepulchre. 
And  there  of  old  the  dread  mysterious  moan 
Svvell'd  from  strange  voices  of  no  mortal  tone  ; 
And  that  wild  trumpet,  whose  unearthly  note 
Was  heard,  at  midnight,  o'er  the  hills  to  float 
Around  the  spot  where  Agrippina  died, 
Denouncing  vengeance  on  the  matricide. 

Past  are  those  ages — yet  another  crime, 
Another  woe,  must  stain  th'  Elysian  clime. 
There  stands  a  scaffold  on  the  sunny  shore — 
It  must  be  crimson 'd  ere  the  day  is  o'er ! 
There  is  a  throne  in  regal  pomp  array 'd, — 
A  scene  of  death  from  thence  must  be  survey'd. 
Mark'd  ye  the  rushing  throngs  ? — each  mien  is 

pale, 

Each  hurried  glance  reveals  a  fearful  tale  ; 
But  the  deep  workings  of  th'  indignant  breast, 
Wrath,  hatred,  pity,  must  be  all  suppress'd  ; 
The  burning  tear  awhile  must  check  its  course. 
Th'  avenging  thought  concentrate  all  its  force  ; 
For  tyranny  is  near,  and  will  not  brook 
Aught  but  submission  in  each  guarded  look. 

Girt  with  his  fierce  Provencals,  and  with  mion 
Austere  in  triumph,  gazing  on  the  scene, 
And  in  his  eye  a  keen  suspicious  glance 
Of  jca.ous  pride  and  restless  vigilance, 
J'ehold  the  conqueror! — vainly  in  his  face, 
Of  gentler  feeling  hope  would  seek  a  trace  : 
Cold,  proud,  severe,  the  spirit  which  hath  lent 
Its  haughty  stamp  to  each  dark  lineament  ; 
And  pleading  Mercy,  in  the  sternness  there, 
May  read  at  once  her  sent3nce — to  despair 


(107) 

But  them,  fair  boy !  the  beautiful,  the  brave, 
Thus  passing  from  the  dungeon  to  the  grave, 
While  all  is  yet  around  thee  which  can  give 
A  charm  to  earth,  and  make  it  bliss  to  live  ; 
Thou  on  whose  form  hath  dwelt  a  mother's  eye, 
Till  the  deep  love  that  not  with  thee  shall  dio 
Hath  grown  too  full  for  utterance — Can  it  be  ? 
And  is  this  pomp  of  death  prepared  for  thee  ? 
Young,    royal    Conradin  !    who    shouldst    have 

known 

Of  life  as  yet  the  sunny  side  alone  ! 
Oh !  who  can  view  thee,  in  the  pride  and  bloom 
Of  youth,  array'd  so  richly  for  the  tomb, 
Nor  feel,  deep  swelling  in  his  inmost  soul, 
Emotions  tyranny  may  ne'er  control? 
Bright  victim !  to  Ambition's  altar  led, 
Crown'd  with  all  flowers  that  heaven  on  earth 

can  shed, 

Who,  from  th'  oppressor  towering  in  his  pride, 
May  hope  for  mercy — if  to  thee  denied  ? 
There  is  dead  silence  on  the  breathless  throng, 
Dead  silence  all  the  peopled  shore  along, 
As  on  the  captive  moves — the  only  sound, 
To  break  that  calm  so  fearfully  profound, 
The  low,  sweet  murmur  of  the  rippling  wave, 
Soft  as  it  glides,  the  smiling  shore  to  lave  ; 
Wrhile  on  that  shore,  his  own  fair  heritage, 
The  youthful  martyr  to  a  tyrant's  rage 
Is  passing  to  his  fate  :  the  eyes  are  dim 
Which  gaze,  through  tears  that  dare  not  flow, 

on  him. 

He  mounts  the  scaffold — doth  his  footstep  fail? 
Doth  his  lip  quiver?  doth  his  cheek  turn  pale? 


(108) 

Oh !  it  may  be  forgiven  him  if  a  thought 
Cling  to  that  world,  for  him  with  beauty  fraughtt 
To  all  the  hopes  that  promised  glory's  meed, 
And  all  th'  affections  that  with  him  shall  bleed ! 
If,  in  his  life's  young  dayspring,  while  the  rose 
Of  boyhood  on  his  cheek  yet  freshly  glows, 
One  human  fear  convulse  his  parting  breath, 
And  shrink  from  all  the  bitterness  of  death  ! 

But  no  !  the  spirit  of  his  royal  race 
Sits  brightly  on  his  brow — that  youthful  face 
Beams  with  heroic  beauty,  and  his  eye 
Is  eloquent  with  injured  majesty. 
He    kneels — but   not    to   man — his   heart  shall 

own 

Such  deep  submission  to  his  God  alone  ! 
And  who  can  tell  with  what  sustaining  power 
That  God  may  visit  him  in  fate's  dread  hour  ? 
How  still  the  voice,  which  answers  every  moan, 
May  speak  of  hope — when  hope    on    earth    is 

gone  ? 
That   solemn  pause  is  o'er — the  youth  hath 

given 

One  glance  of  parting  love  to  earth  and  heaven . 
The  sun  rejoices  in  th'  unclouded  sky, 
Life  all  around  him  glows — and  he  must  die ! 
Yet  'midst  his  people,  undismay'd,  he  throws 
The  gage  of  vengeance  for  a  thousand  woes ; 
Vengeance,  that,  like  their  own  volcano's  fire, 
May  sleep  suppress'd  a  while — but  not  expire. 
One  softer  image  rises  o'er  his  breast, 
One  fond  regret,  and  all  shall  be  at  rest  ! 
'<  Alas,  for  three,  my  mother !  who  shall  bear 
To  thy  sad  heart  the  tidings  of  despair, 


(109) 

When  thy  lost  child  is  gone  ?  " — that  thought 

can  thrill 

His  soul  with  pangs  one  moment  more  shall  still. 
The  lifted  axe  is  glittering  in  the  sun — 
It  falls — the  race  of  Conradin  is  run  ! 
Yet,  from  the  blood  which  flows  that  shore  to 

stain, 

A  voice  shall  cry  to  heaven — and  not  in  vain ! 
Gaze  thou,  triumphant  from  thy  gorgeous  throne, 
In  proud  supremacy  of  guilt  alone, 
Charles  of  Anjou !  but  that  dread  voice  shall  be 
A  fearful  summoner  e'en  yet  to  thee ! 

The  scene   of  death  is  closed — the  throngs 

depart, 

A  deep  stern  lesson  graved  on  every  heart. 
No  pomp,  no  funeral  rites,  no  streaming  eyes, 
High-minded  boy !  may  grace  thine  obsequies. 
O,  vainly  royal  and  beloved !  thy  grave, 
Unsaactified,  is  bathed  by  Ocean's  wave ; 
Mark'd  by  no  stone,  a  rude,  neglected  spot, 
LJnhonor'd,  unadorn'd — but  unforgot  ; 
For  thy  deep  wrongs  in  tameless  hearts  shall 

live, 
Now  mutely  suffering-^— never  to  forgive  ! 

The  sunset  fades  from  purple  heavens  away— • 
A  bark  hath  anchor'd  in  th'  unruffled  bay  ; 
Thence  on  the  beach  descends  a  female  form, 
Her  mien  with  hope  and  tearful  transport  warm  ; 
But  life  hath  left  sad  traces  on  her  cheek, 
And  her  soft  eyes  a  chasten'd  heart  bespeak, 
Inured  to  woes — yet  what  were  all  the  past ! 
She  sunk  not  feebly  'neath  affliction's  blast, 
10 


(110) 

While  one  bright  hope  remain'd — who  now  shall 

tell 
Th'  imcrown'd,  the  widow'd,  how  her  loved  one 

fell? 

To  clasp  her  child,  to  ransom  and  to  save, 
The  mother  came-^and  she  hath  found  his  grave ! 
And  by  that  grave,  transfix'd  in  speechless  grief, 
Whose  death-like  trance  denies  a  tear's  relief, 
Awhile  she  kneels — till  roused  at  length  to  know 
To  feel  the  might,  the  fulness  of  her  woe, 
On  the  still  air  a  voice  of  anguish  wild, 
A  mother's  cry  is  heard — "  My  Conradin !  my 

child !  " 


THE    KING    OF    ARRAGON'S    LAMENT 
FOR  HIS  BROTHER. 

THERE  were  light  sounds   of  revelling  in  the 

vanquish'd  city's  halls, 
As  by  night  the  feast  of  victory  was  held  within 

its  walls ; 
And  the  conquerors  filled  the  wine  cup  high, 

after  years  of  bright  blood  shed  ; 
But  their  Lord,  the  King  of  Arragon,  'midst  the 

triumph,  wail'd  the  dead. 

He  look'd  down  from  the  fortress  won  on  the 

tents  and  towers  below, 
The  moon-lit  sea,  the  torch-lit  streets, — and  a 

gloom  came  o'er  his  brow  : 


(Ill) 

The  voice  of  thousands  floated  up,  with  the 

horn  and  cymbal's  tone  ; 
But  his  heart,  'midst  that  proud  music,  felt  more 

utterly  alone. 

And  he  cried,  "Thou  art  mine,  fair  city  !  thou 

city  of  the  seal 
But,  ch  !  what  portion  of  delight  is  mine  at  last 

in  thee  ? 
— I  am  lonely  midst  thy  palaces,  while  the  glad 

waves  past  them  roll, 
And  the  soft  breath  of  thine  orange-bowers  is 

mournful  to  my  soul. 

"  My  brother !  oh !  my  brother !  thou  art  gone, — 

the  true  and  brave, 
And  the  haughty  joy  of  victory  hath  died  upon 

thy  grave, 
There  are  many  round  my  throne  to  stand,  and 

to  march  where  I  lead  on  ; 
There  was  one  to  love  me  in  the  world, — my 

brother !  thou  art  gone  ! 

"  In  the  desert,  in  the  battle,  in  the  ocean- 
tempest's  wrath, 

We  stood  together  side  by  side  ;  one  hope  was 
ours, — one  path  ; 

Thou  hast  wrapt  me  in  the  soldier's  cloak,  thou 
hast  fenced  me  with  thy  breast  ; 

Thou  hast  watch 'd  beside  my  couch  of  pain  - 
oh  !  bravest  heart,  and  best ! 


(112) 

'  I  sec  the  festive  lights  around  ; — o'er  a  dull 

sad  world  they  shine  ; 
I  hear  the  voice  of  victory — my  Pedro  ?  where 

is  thine  ? 
The  only  voice  in  whose  kind  tone  my  spirit 

found  reply ! — 
O  brother !  I  have  bought  too  dear  this  hollow 

pageantry ! 

"  I  have  hosts,  and  gallant  fleets,  to  spread  my 

glory  and  my  sway, 
And  chiefs  to  lead  them  fearlessly ; — my  friend 

hath  pass'd  away ! 
For  the  kindly  look,  the  word  of  cheer,  my 

heart  may  thirst  in  vain, 
And  the  face  that  was  as  light  as  mine — it  cannot 

come  again ! 

"  I  have  made  thy  blood,  thy  faithful  blood,  the 

offering  for  a  crown  ; 
With  love,  which  earth   bestows  not  twice,  I 

have  purchased  cold  renown  j 
How   often    will   my   weary   heart    'midst    the 

sounds  of  triumph  die, 
VThen  I  think  of  thee,  my  brother  !  thon  flowei 

of  chivalry  ! 

"  1  am  lonely — I  am  lonely !  this  rest  is  even  as 

death ! 
Let  me  hear  again  the  ringing  spears,  and  the 

battle-trumpet's  breath  : 


(113) 

Let  me  see  the  fiery  charger  foam,  and  the  royal 

banner  wave — 
But  where  art  thou,  my  brother  ?  where  ? —  m 

thy  low  and  eaily  grave  !  " 

A; id  louder  swelled  the  songs  of  joy  through 

that  victorious  night, 
And  faster  flow'd  the  red  wine   forth,  by  the 

stars'  and  torches'  light ; 
But  lo\v  and  deep,  amidst  the  mirth,  was  heard 

the  conqueror's  moan — 
"  My    brother !    oh  !    my    brother  !    best    ami 

bravest !  thou  art  gone  !  " 


THE  HOMES  OF  ENGLAND. 

THE  stately  homes  of  England, 

How  beautiful  they  stand  ! 
Amidst  their  tall  ancestral  trees, 

O'er  all  the  pleasant  land. 
The  deer  across  then  greensward  bound, 

Through  shade  and  sunny  gleam, 
And  the  swan  glides  past  them  with  the  son  m.) 

Of  some  rejoicing  stream. 

The  merry  homes  of  England  ! 

Around  their  hearths  by  night, 
What  gladsome  looks  of  household  love 

Meet  in  the  ruddy  light ! 
10 


(114) 

There  woman's  voice  flows  forth  in  song, 

Or  childhood's  tale  is  told, 
Or  lips  move  tunefully  along 

Some  glorious  page  of  old. 

The  blessed  homes  of  England  ! 

How  softly  on  their  bowers 
Is  laid  the  holy  quietness 

That  breathes  from  Sabbath-hours 
Solemn,  yet  sweet,  the  church-bells  chime 

Floats  through  their  woods  at  morn  ; 
All  other  sounds,  in  that  still  time, 

Of  breeze  and  leaf  are  born. 

The  cottage  homes  of  England ! 

By  thousands  on  her  plains, 
They  are  smiling  o'er  the  silvery  brooks, 

And  round  the  hamlet-fanes. 
Through  glowing  orchards  forth  they  peep, 

Each  from  its  nook  of  leaves, 
And  fearless  there  the  lowly  sleep, 

As  the  bird  beneath  their  eaves. 

The  free,  fair  homes  of  England  ! 

Long,  long,  in  hut  and  hall, 
May  hearts  of  native  proof  be  rear'd 

To  guard  each  hallo w'd  wall ! 
And  green  for  ever  be  the  groves, 

And  bright  the  flowery  sod, 
Where  first  the  child's  glad  spirit  loves 

Its  country  and  its  God  ! 


THE  LAND  OF  DREAMS. 

0  SPIRIT-LAND  !  them  land  of  dreams  ! 
A  world  thou  art  of  mysterious  gleams, 
Of  startling  voices,  and  sounds  at  strife, — 
A  world  of  the  dead  in  the  hues  of  life. 

Like  a  wizard's  magic  glass  thou  art, 
When  the  wavy  shadows  float  by,  and  part : 
Visions  of  aspects,  now  loved,  now  strange, 
Glimmering  and  mingling  in  ceaseless  change. 

Thou  art  like  a  city  of  the  past, 
With  its  gorgeous  halls  in  fragments  cast, 
Amidst  whose  ruins  there  glide  and  play 
Familiar  forms  of  the  world's  to  day. 

Thou  art  like  the  depths  where  the  seas  have  birth, 
Rich  with  the  wealth  that  is  lost  from  earth, — 
All  the  sere  flowers  of  our  days  gone  by. 
Arid  the  buried  gems  in  thy  bosom  lie. 

Yes !  thou  art  like  those  dim  sea  caves, 

A  realm  of  treasures,  a  realm  of  graves ! 

And   the    shapes   through    thy    mysteries    thai 

come  and  go, 
Are  of  beauty  and  terror,  of  power  and  woe. 

But  for  me,  O  thou  picture-land  of  sleep ! 
Thou  art  all  one  world  of  affections  deep, — 


(116) 

And  wrung  from  my  heart  is  each  flushing  dye, 
That  sweeps  o'er  thy  chambers  of  imagery. 

And  thy  bowers  are  fair — e'en  as  Eden  fair  ; 
All  the  beloved  of  my  soul  are  there  ! 
Tl.e  forms  of  my  spirit  most  pines  to  see, 
The  eyes,  whose  love  hath  been  life  to  me : 

They  are  there, — and  each  blessed  voice  I  hear, 
Kindly,  and  joyous,  and  silvery  clear  ; 
But  under-tones  are  in  each,  that  say, — 
"  It  is  but  a  dream  ;  it  will  melt  away !  " 

I  walk  with  sweet  friends  in  the  sunset's  glow, 

I  listen  to  music  of  long  ago  ; 

But  one  thought,  like  an  omen,  breathes  faint 

through  the  lay  : 
"  It  is  but  a  dream  ;  it  will  melt  away  !  " 

I  sit^by  the  hearth  of  my  early  days  ; 
All  the  home-faces  are  met  by  the  blaze, — 
And  the  eyes  of  the  mother  shine  soft,  yet  say 
"  It  is  but  a  dream  ;  it  will  melt  away  ! " 

And  away,  like  a  flower's  passing  breath,  'tis  gone, 
And  I  wake  more  sadly,  more  deeply  lone  ! 
Oh  !  a  haunted  heart  is  a  weight  to  bear, — 
Bright  faces,  kind  voices !  where  are  ye,  where  ? 

Shadow  not  forth,  O  thou  land  of  dreams, 
The  past,  as  it  fled  by  my  own  blue  streams ! 
Make  not  my  spirit  within  me  burn 
For  the  scenes  and  the  hours  that  may  ne'er  return ! 


(117) 

Call  out  from  the  future  thy  visions  bright, 
From  the  world  o'er  the  grave,  take  thy  solemn 

light, 

And  oh !  with  the  loved,  whom  no  more  I  sec, 
Show  me  my  home,  as  it  yet  may  be  ! 

As  it  yet  may  be  in  some  purer  sphere, 
No  cloud,  no  parting,  no  sleepless  fear  ; 
So  my  soul  may  bear  on,  through  the  long,  long 

day, 
Till  I  go  where  the  beautiful  melts  not  away  ! 


THE  CHILDE'S  DESTINY. 

No  mistress  of  the  hidden  skill, 

No  wizard  gaunt  and  grim, 
Went  up  by  night  to  heath  or  hill, 

To  read  the  stars  for  him  ; 
The  merriest  girl  in  all  the  land 

Of  vine-encircled  France 
Bestow'd  upon  his  brow  and  hand 

Her  philosophic  glance  : 
"  I  bind  thee  with  a  spell,"  said  she, 

"  I  sign  thee  with  a  sign  ; 
No  woman's  love  shall  light  on  thee. 

No  woman's  heart  be  thine  ! 

{t  And  trust  me,  'tis  not  that  thy  cheek 

Is  colorless  and  cold, 
Nor  that  thine  eye  is  slow  to  speak 

What  only  eyes  have  told  ; 


(118) 

?OT  many  a  cheek  of  paler  white 

Hath  blush 'd  with  passion's  kiss  ; 
ind  many  an  eye  of  lesser  light 

Hath  caught  its  fire  from  bliss  ; 
i^et  while  the  rivers  seek  the  sea, 

And  while  the  young  stars  shine, 
No  woman's  love  shall  light  on  thee, 

No  woman's  heart  be  thine  ! 

''  And  'tis  not  that  thy  spirit,  awed 

By  beauty's  numbing  spell, 
Shrinks  from  the  force  or  from  the  fraud 

Which  beauty  loves  so  well  ; 
For  thou  hast  learn'd  to  watch  and  wake, 

And  swear  by  earth  and  sky  ; 
A.nd  thou  art  ever  bold  to  take 

What  we  must  still  deny ; 
(  cannot  tell :  the  charm  was  wrought 

By  other  threads  than  mine, 
The  lips  are  lightly  begg'd  or  bought, 

The  heart  may  not  be  thine ! 

'  Yet  thine  the  brightest  smile  shall  be 

That  ever  beauty  wore, 
.ind  confidence  from  two  or  three, 

And  compliments  from  more  ; 
\nd  one  shall  give,  perchance  hath  given, 

What  only  is  not  love, —  • 
Friendship,  oh  !  such  as  saints  in  heaven 

Rain  on  us  from  above. 
If  she  shall  meet  thee  in  the  bower, 

Or  name  thee  in  the  shrine, 
Oh  !  wear  the  ring,  and  guard  the  flower, 

Her  heart  mav  not  be  thine! 


(119) 

"  Go,  set  thy  boat  before  the  blast, 

Thy  breast  before  the  gun, — 
The  haven  shall  be  reach'd  at  last, 

The  battle  shall  be  won  ; 
Or  muse  upon  thy  country's  laws, 

Or  strike  thy  country's  lute, 
And  patriot  hands  shall  sound  applause, 

And  lovely  lips  be  mute  : 
Go,  dig  the  diamond  from  the  wave, 

The  treasiue  from  the  mine, 
Enjoy  the  wreath,  the  gold,  the  grave, — 

No  woman's  heart  is  thine  ! 

"  I  charm  thee  from  the  agony 

Which  others  feel  or  feign  ; 
From  anger,  and  from  jealously, 

From  doubt,  and  from  disdain  ; 
I  bid  thee  wear  the  scorn  of  years 

Upon  the  cheek  of  youth, 
And  curl  the  lip  at  passion's  tears, 

And  shake  the  head  at  truth : 
While  there  is  bliss  in  revelry, 

Forgetfulness  in  wine, 
Be  thou  from  woman's  love  as  free 

As  woman  is  from  thine  !  " 


CGEUR   DE   LION   AT   THE   BIER   OF 
HIS  FATHER. 

TORCHES  were  blazing  clear, 

Hyrnns  pealing  deep  and  slow, 
\Vhere  a  king  lay  stately  on  his  bier 

In  the  church  of  Fontevraud. 
Banners  of  battle  o'er  him  hung, 

And  warriors  slept  beneath, 
And  light,  as  noon's  broad  light  was  flung 

On  the  settled  face  of  death. 

On  the  settled  face  of  death 

A  strong  and  ruddy  glare, 
Though  dimm'd  at  times  by  the  censer's  breatli, 

Yet  it  fell  still  brightest  there  : 
As  if  each  deeply  furrow'd  trace 

Of  earthly  years  to  show, — 
Alas  !  that  sceptred  mortal's  race 

Had  surely  closed  in  woe  ! 

The  marble  floor  was  swept 

By  many  a  long  dark  stole, 
As  the  kneeling  priests,  round  him  that  slept, 

Sang  mass  for  the  parted  soul : 
And  solemn  were  the  strains  they  pour'd 

Through  the  stillness  of  the  night, 
With  the  cross  above,  and  the  crown  and  sword, 

And  the  silent  king  in  sight. 


(121) 

There  was  heard  a  heavy  clang, 

As  of  steel-girt  men  the  tread, 
A.nd  the  tombs  and  the  hollow  pavement  rang 

With  a  sounding  thrill  of  dread  ; 
And  the  holy  chant  was  hush'd  awhile, 

As,  by  the  torch's  flame, 
A  gleam  of  arms  up  the  sweeping  aisle, 

With  a  mail-clad  leader  came. 

He  came  with  haughty  look, 

An  eagle-glance  and  clear  ; 
But  his  proud  heart  through  its  breastplate  shook, 

When  he  stood  beside  the  bier ! 
He  stood  there  still  with  a  drooping  brow, 

And  clasped  hands  o'er  it  raised  ; — 
For  his  father  lay  before  him  low, 

It  was  Coeur  de  Lion  gazed ! 

And  silently  he  strove 

With  the  workings  of  his  breast ; 
But  there's  more  in  late  repentant  love 

Than  steel  may  keep  suppress'd  ! 
And  his  tears  brake  forth,  at  last,  like  rain  — 

Men  held  their  breath  in  awe, 
For  his  face  was  seen  by  his  warrior  train, 

And  he  reck'd  not  that  they  saw. 

He  look'd  upon  the  dead, 

And  sorrow  seem'd  to  lie, 

A  weight  of  sorrow,  even  like  lead, 

Pale  on  the  fast-shut  eye. 

11 


(  122  ) 

He  stoop'd — and  kiss'd  the  frozen  cheek 
And  the  heavy  hand  of  cla^ 

Till  bursting  words — yet  all  too  weak — 
Gave  his  soul's  passion  way. 

"  Oh,  father  !  is  it  vain, 

This  late  remorse  and  deep ': 
Speak  to  me,  father  !  once  again, 

I  weep — behold,  I  weep  ! 
Alas  !  my  guilty  pride  and  ire  ! 

Were  but  this  work  undone- 
I  would  give  England's  crown,  my  sire ! 

To  hear  thee  bless  thy  son. 

"  Speak  to  me  !  mighty  grief 

Ere  now  the  dust  hath  stirr'd ! 
Hear  me,  but  hear  me  ! — father,  chief, 

My  king  !  1  must  be  heard  ! — 
Hush'd,  hush'd — how  is  it  that  1  call, 

And  that  thou  answerest  not  ? 
When  was  it  thus,  woe,  woe  for  all 

The  love  my  soul  forgot ! 

"  Thy  silver  hairs  I  see, 

So  still,  so  sadly  bright ! 
And  father,  father  !  but  for  me, 

They  had  not  been  so  white  ! 
I  bore  thee  down,  high  heart !  at  last, 

No  longer  could'st  thou  strive  ; — 
Oh  !  for  one  moment  of  the  past, 

To  kneel  and  say — '  forgive  ! ' 

"  Thou  wert  the  noblest  king, 
On  royal  throne  ere  seen  : 


(123) 

And  thou  didst  wear  in  knightly  ring 

Of  all,  the  stateliest  mien ; 
And  thou  didst  prove,  where  spears  are  proved, 

In  war,  the  bravest  heart — 
Oh  !  ever  the  renoAvn'd  and  loved 

Thou  wert — and  there  thou  art ! 

"  Thou  that  my  boyhood's  guide 

Didst  take  fond  joy  to  be  ! — 
The  times  I've  sported  at  thy  side, 

And  climb'd  thy  parent  knee  ! 
And  there  before  the  blessed  shrine, 

My  sire  !  I  see  thee  lie, — 
How  will  that  sad  still  face  of  thine 

Look  on  me  till  I  die  !  " 


THE  LANDING  OF  THE  PILGRIM 
FATHERS. 

THE  breaking  waves  dashed  high 
On  a  stern  and  rock-bound  coast, 

And  the  woods,  against  a  stormy  sky 
Their  giant  branches  toss'd  ; 

And  the  heavy  night  hung  di.*iC 

The  hills  and  waters  o'er, 
When  a  band  of  exiles  moord  their  bark 

On  the  wild  New  England  shore. 


(124) 

Not  as  the  conqueror  comes, 

They,  the  true-hearted,  came, 
Not  with  the  roll  of  the  stirring  drums, 

And  the  trumpet  that  sings  of  fame  ; 

Not  as  the  flying  come, 

In  silence  and  in  fear, — 
They  shook  the  depths  of  the  desert's  gloom 

With  their  hymns  of  lofty  cheer. 

Amidst  the  storm  they  sang, 

And  the  stars  heard  and  the  sea ! 

And  the  sounding  aisles  of  the  dim  woods  rang 
To  the  anthem  of  the  free  ! 

The  ocean-eagle  soar'd 

From  his  nest  hy  the  white  wave's  foam, 
And  the  rocking  pines  of  the  forest  roar'd — 

This  was  their  welcome  home  ! 

There  were  men  with  hoary  hair 

Amidst  that  pilgrim-band — 
Why  had  they  come  to  wither  there 

Away  from  their  childhood's  land  : 

There  was  woman's  fearless  eye, 

Lit  by  her  deep  love's  truth  ; 
There  was  manhood's  brow,  serenely  high, 

And  -the  fiery  heart  of  youth. 

What  sought  they  thus  afar  ? 

Bright  jewels  of  the  mine  ? 
The  wealth  of  seas,  the  spoils  of  war  ?- 

They  sought  a  faith's  pure  shrine  ' 


(125) 

Aye,  call  it  holy  ground, 

The  soil  where  first  they  trod ! 
Tliey  have  left  unstain'd  what  there  they  found — 

Freedom  to  worship  God  ! 


THE  VOICE  OF  SPRING. 

I  COME,  I  come  !  ye  have  called  me  long, 
I  come  o'er  the  mountains  with  light  and  song ! 
Ye  may  trace  my  step  o'er  the  wakening  earth, 
By  the  winds  which  tell  of  the  violet's  birth, 
By  the  primrose-stars  in  the  shadowy  grass, 
By  the  green  leaves,  opening  as  I  pass. 

I  have  breathed  on  the  south,  and  the  chestnut 

flowers 

By  thousands  have  burst  from  the  forest-bowers, 
And  the  ancient  graves,  and  the  fallen  fanes, 
Are  veil'd  with  wreaths  on  Italian  plains ; — 
But  it  is  not  for  me,  in  my  hour  of  bloom, 
To  speak  of  the  ruin  or  the  tomb  ! 

I  have  look'd  o'er  the  hills  of  the  stormy  north, 
And  the  larch  has  hung  all  his  tassels  forth, 
The  fisher  is  out  on  the  sunny  sea, 
And  the  reindeer  bounds  o'er  the  pastures  free, 
And  the  pine  has  a  fringe  of  softer  green, 
And  the  moss  looks  bright  where  my  foot  hath 
been.  ^ 

11* 


(126) 

f  have  sent  through  the  wood-paths  a  glowing 

sigh, 

And  call'd  out  each  voice  of  the  deep  blue  sky  ; 
From  the  night-bird's  lay  through  the  starry  tinui, 
In  the  groves  of  the  soft  Hesperian  clime, 
To  the  swan's  wild  notes  by  the  Iceland  lakes, 
When  the  dark  fir-branch  into  verdure  breaks. 

From  the  streams  and  founts  I  have  loosed  the 

chain, 

They  are  sweeping  on  to  the  silvery  main, 
They  are  flashing  down  from  the  mountain  brows, 
They  are  flinging  spray  o'er  the  forest-boughs, 
They  are  bursting  fresh  from  their  sparry  caves, 
And  the  earth  resounds  with  the  joy  of  waves  ! 

Come  forth,  O  ye  children  of  gladness,  come  ! 
Where  the  violets  lie  may  be  now  your  home. 
Ye  of  the  rose  lip  and  dew-bright  eye, 
And  the  bounding  footstep,  to  meet  me  fly  ! 
With  the  lyre,  and  the  wreath,  and  the  joyous  lay, 
Come  forth  to  the  sunshine,  I  may  not  stay. 

Away  from  the  dwellings  of  care-worn  men, 
The  waters  are  sparkling  in  grove  and  glen  ! 
Away  from  the  chamber  and  sullen  hearth, 
The  young  leaves  are  dancing  in  breezy  mirth  ! 
Their  light  stems  thrill  to  the  wild-wood  strains 
And  youth  is  abroad  in  my  green  domains. 

But  ye ! — ye  are  changed  since  ye  met  me  last ! 
There    is  something  bright  from  your  features 
pass'd  ! 


(127) 

There  is  that  come  over  your  brow  and  eye, 
Which  speaks  of  a  world  where    the   flowers 
must  die ! 

Ye  smile !  but  your  smile  hath  a  dimness  yet— 

Oh  !  what  have  you  look'd  on  since  last  we  met  ? 

Ye  are  changed,  ye  are  changed ! — and  I  see  not 

here 

All  whom  I  saw  in  th<)  vanish'd  year ! 
There  were  graceful  heads,  with  their  ringlets 

bright, 

Which  toss'd  in  the  breeze  with  a  play  of  light, 
There  were  eyes,  in  whose  glistening  laughter 

lay 

No  faint  remembrance  of  dull  decay ! 

* 

There  were  steps  that  flew  o'er  the  cowslip's 
head, 

As  if  for  a  banquet  all  earth  were  spread  ; 

There  were  voices  that  rung  through  the  sap- 
phire sky, 

And  had  not  a  sound  of  mortality ! 

Are  they  gone  ?  is  their  mirth  from  the  moun- 
tains pass'd  ? — 

Ye  have  look'd  on  death  since  ye  met  me  last ! 

I  know  whence  the  shadow  comes  o'er  you  now, 
Ye  have  strewn  the  dust  on  the  sunny  brow ! 
Ye  have  given  the  lovely  to  earth's  embrace — 
She  hath  taken  the  fairest  of  beauty's  race, 
With  their  laughing  eyes  and  their  festal  crown, 
They  arc  gone  from   amongst  you    in    silence 
down  ! 


(  128 ) 

They  are  gone  from  amongst  yon,  the  young 

and  fair, 

Ye  have  lost  the  gleam  of  their  shining  hair ! — 
But  I  know  of  a  land  where  there  falls  no  blight, 
I  shall  find  them  there,  with  their  eyes  of  light ! 
Where  Death  'midst  the  blooms  of  the  morn 

may  dwell, 
I  tarry  no  longer — farewell,  farewell ! 

The  summer  is  coming,  on  soft  winds  borne, 
Ye  may  press  the  grape,  ye  may  bind  the  corn ! 
For  me,  I  depart  to  a  brighter  shore, 
Ye  are  mark'd  by  care,  ye  are  mine  no  more  ; 
[  go  where  the  loved  who  have  left  you  dwell, 
And  the  flowers  are  not  Death's — fare  ye  well, 
farewell ! 


ROMAN  GIRL'S  SONG. 

ROME,  Rome  !  thou  art  no  more 

As  thou  hast  been  ! 
On  thy  seven  hills  of  yore 

Thou  satt'st  a  queen. 

Thou  hadst  thy  triumphs  then 

Purpling  the  street, 
Leaders  and  sceptred  men 

Bow'd  at  thv  feet. 


(129) 

They  that  thy  mantle  wore, 

As  gods  were  seen — 
Rome,  Rome  !  thou  art  no  more 

As  thou  hast  been  ! 

Rome  !  thine  imperial  brow 

Never  shall  rise : 
What  hast  thou  left  thee  now  ? — 

Thou  hast  thy  skies  ! 

Blue,  deeply  blue,  they  are, 

Gloriously  bright ! 
Veiling  thy  wastes  afar 

With  color'd  light. 

Thou  hast  the  sunset's  glow, 

Rome,  for  thy  dower, 
Flushing  tall  cypress  bough, 

Temple  and  tower ! 

And  all  sweet  sounds  are  thine, 

Lovely  to  hear, 
While  night  o'er  tomb  and  shrine, 

Rests  darkly  clear. 

Many  a  solemn  hymn, 

By  starlight  sung, 
Sweeps  through  the  arches  dim, 

Thy  wrecks  among. 

Many  a  flute's  low  swell,  ' 

On  thy  soft  air 
Lingers,  and  loves  to  dwell 

With  summer  there. 


(130) 

Thou  hast  the  south's  rich  gift 

Of  sudden  song — 
A  charmed  fountain,  swift, 

Joyous,  and  strong. 

Thou  hast  fair  forms  that  move 

With  queenly  tread  ; 
Thou  hast  proud  fanes  above 

Thy  mighty  dead. 

Yet  wears  thy  Tiber's  shore 

A  mournful  mien  : — 
Rome,  Rome  !  thou  art  no  more 

As  thou  hast  been  ! 


DIRGE. 

WHERE  shall  we  make  her  grave  ? 
— Oh  !  where  the  wild  flowers  wave 

In  the  free  air ! 

Where  shower  and  singing  bird 
'Midst  the  young  leaves  are  heard — 

There — lay  her  there  ! 

Harsh  was  the  world  to  her— 
Now  may  sleep  minister 

Balm  for  each  ill  : 
Low  on  sweet  nature's  breast, 
Let  the  meek  heart  find  rest 

Deep,  deep  and  still ' 


(131) 

Murmur,  glad  waters,  by  ! 
Faint  gales,  with  happy  sigh, 

Come  wandering  o'er 
That  green  and  mossy  bed, 
Where,  on  a  gentle  head, 

Storms  beat  no  more  ! 

What  though  for  her  in  vain 
Falls  now  the  bright  spring  rain, 

Plays  the  soft  wind  ? 
Yet  still,  from  where  she  lies, 
Should  blessed  breathings  rise 

Gracious  and  kind. 

Therefore,  let  song  and  dew 
Thence,  in  the  heart  renew 

Life's  vernal  glow  ! 
And  o'er  that  holy  earth 
Scents  of  the  violet's  birth 

Still  come  and  go  ! 

Oh  !  then  where  wild  flowers  wave, 
Make  ye  her  mossy  grave 

In  the  free  air  ! 

Where  shower  and  singing  bird 
'Midst  the  young  leaves  are  heard- 

There,  lay  her  there ! 


(132) 


THE  CORONATION  OF  INEZ  DE  CASTRO. 

THERE  was  music  on  the  midnight ; — 

From  a  royal  fane  it  roll'd, 
And  a  mighty  bell,  each  pause  between, 

Sternly  and  slowly  toll'd. 
Strange  was  their  mingling  in  the  sky, 

It  hush'd  the  listener's  breath  ; 
For  the  music  spoke  of  triumph  high, 

The  lonely  bell,  of  death. 

There  was  hurrying  through  the  midnight— 

A  sound  of  many  feet : 
But  they  fell  with  a  muffled  fearfulness, 

Along  the  shadowy  street : 
And  softer,  fainter,  grew  their  tread, 

As  it  near'd  the  minster-gate, 
Whence  a  broad  and  solemn  light  was  shed 

From  a  scene  of  royal  state. 

Full  glow'd  the  strong  red  radiance, 

In  the  centre  of  the  nave, 
Where  the  folds  of  a  purple  canopy 

Swept  down  in  many  a  wave  ; 
Loading  the  marble  pavement  old 

With  a  weight  of  gorgeous  gloom, 
For  something  lay  'midst  their  fretted  gold 

Like  a  shadow  of  the  tomb 


(133) 

And  within  that  rich  pavilion, 

High  on  a  glittering  throne, 
\  woman's  form  sat  silently, 

'Midst  the  glare  of  light  alone. 
Her  jewel'd  robes  fell  strangely  still — 

The  drapery  on  her  breast 
Seem'd  with  no  pulse  beneath  to  thrill, 
So  stone-like  was  its  rest ! 

But  a  peal  of  lordly  music 

Shook  e'en  the  dust  below, 
When  the  burning  gold  of  the  diadem 

Was  set  on  her  pallid  brow  ! 
Then  died  away  that  haughty  sound, 

And  from  the  encircling  band 
Slept  Prince  and  Chief,  'midst  the  hush  profound, 
With  homage  to  her  hand. 

Why  pass'd  a  faint,  cold  shuddering 

Over  each  mortal  frame, 
As  one  by  one,  to  touch  that  hand, 

Noble  and  leader  came  ? 
Was  not  the  settled  aspect  fair? 

Did  not  a  queenly  grace, 
Under  the  parted  ebon  hair, 

Sit  on  the  pale  still  face  ? 

Death  !  Death  !  canst  thou  be  lovely 

Unto  the  eye  of  Life  ? 
Is  not  each  pulse  of  the  quick  high  breast 

With  thy  cold  mien  at  strife  ? 
12 


(134) 

-It  was  a  strange  and  fearful  sight, 

The  crown  upon  that  head, 
The  glorious  robes,  and  the  blaze  of  light, 
All  gather'd  round  the  Dead ! 

And  beside  her  stood  in  silence 

One  with  a  brow  as  pale, 
And  white  lips  rigidly  compress'd, 

Lest  the  strong  heart  should  fail : 
King  Pedro,  with  a  jealous  eye, 

Watching  the  homage  done, 
By  the  land's  flower  and  chivalry, 

To  her,  his  martyr'd  one. 

But  on  the  face  he  look'd  not, 

Which  once  his  star  had  been  ; 
To  every  form  his  glance  was  turn'd, 

Save  of  the  breathless  queen  : 
Though  something  won  from  the  grave's  embrace 

Of  her  beauty  still  was  there, 
Its  hues  were  all  of  that  shadowy  place 

It  was  not  for  him  to  bear. 

Alas  !  the  crown,  the  sceptre, 

The  treasures  of  the  earth, 
And  the  priceless  love  that  pour'd  those  gifts. 

Alike  of  wasted  worth  ! 
The  rites  are  closed  : — bear  back  the  Dead 

Unto  the  chamber  deep  ! 
Lay  down  again  the  royal  head, 

Dust  with  the  dust  to  sleep ! 


(135) 

There  is  music  on  the  midnight — 

A  requiem  sad  and  slow, 
As  the  mourners  through  the  sounding  aisle 

In  dark  procession  go  ; 
And  the  ring  of  state,  and  the  starry  crown, 

And  all  the  rich  array, 
Are  borne  to  the  house  of  silence  down, 

With  her,  that  queen  of  clay ! 

And  tearlessly  and  firmly 

King  Pedro  led  the  train, — 
But  his  face  was  wrapt  in  his  folding  robe, 

When  they  lower'd  the  dust  again. 
'Tis  hush'd  at  last  the  tomb  above, 

Hymns  die,  and  steps  depart : 
Who  call'd  thee  strong  as  death,  O  Love  ? 

Mightier  thou  wast  and  art. 


TO  A  REMEMBERED  PICTURE, 

THEY  haunt  me   still — those  calm,  pure,  ho'y 

eyes  : 
Their   piercing    sweetness    wanders   through 

my  dreams : 
The  soul  of  music  that  within  them  lies, 

Comes  o'er  my  soul  in  soft  and  sniden  gleams: 
Life — spirit-life — immortal  and  divine — 
Is  there — nud  vot  how  dark  a  death  was  thine! 


(136) 

Could  it — oh  !  could  it  be — meek  child  of  song  ? 

The  might  of  gentleness  on  that  fair  brow — 
Was  the  celestial  gift  no  shield  from  wrong  ? 

Bore  it  no  talisman  to  ward  the  blow  ? 
Ask  if  a  flower,  upon  the  billows  cast, 
Might  brave  their  strife — a  flute-note  hush  the 
blast? 

Are  there  not  deep  sad  oracles  to  read 

In  the  clear  stillness  of  that  radiant  face  ? 

Yes,  even  like  thee  must  gifted  spirits  bleed, 
Thrown  on  a  world,  for  heavenly  things  no 
place ! 

Bright  exiled  birds  that  visit  alijn  skies, 

Pouring  on  storms  their  suppliant  melodies. 

And  seeking  ever  some  true,  gentle  breast, 
Whereon    their    trembling    plumage     might 

repose, 

And  their  free  song-notes,  from  that  happy  nest, 

Gush  as  a  fount  that  forth  from  sunlight  flows ; 

Vain    dream !    the    love  whose   precious   balms 

might  save 
Still,  still  denied — they  struggle  to  the  grave. 

Yet  my  heart  shall  not  sink  ! — another  doom, 
Victim  !  hath  set  its  promise  in  thine  eye  ; 

A  light  is  there,  too  quenchless  for  the  tomb, 
Bright  earnest  of  a  nobler  destiny  ; 

Telling  of  answers,  in  some  far-off  sphere, 

To  the  deep  souls  that  find  no  echo  here 


I  137) 


JOAN  OF  ARC,  IN  RHEIMS. 


THAT  \vas  a  joyous  day  in  Rheims  of  old, 
When  peal  on  peal  of  mighty  music  roll'd 
Forth  from  her  throng'd  cathedral ;  while  around, 
A  multitude,  whose  billows  made  no  sound, 
Chain'd  to  a  hush  of  wonder,  though  elate 
With  victory,  listen'd  at  their  temple's  gate. 
And  what  was  done  within  ? — within,  the  light 
Through  the  rich  gloom  of  pictured  windows 

flowing, 

Tinged  with  soft  awfulness  a  stately  sight, 
The  chivalry  of   France,  their   proud   heads 

bowing 

In  martial  vassalage  ! — while  'midst  that  ring, 
And  shadow'd  by  the  ancestral  tombs,  a  king 
Received  his  birthright's  crown.  For  this,  the 

hymn 

Swell'd  out  like  rushing  waters,  and  the  day 
With  the  sweet  censer's  misty  breath  grew  dim, 
As  through  long  aisles  it  floated  o'er  th'  array 
Of  arms  and  sweeping  stoles.     But  who,  alone 
And  unapproach'd,  beside  the  altar-stone, 
Witli    the    white    banner,    forth    like    sunshine 

streaming, 
And  the  gold  helm,  through  clouds  of  fragrance 

gleaming, — 

Silent  and  radiant  stood? — the  helm  was  raised, 
And  the  fair  face  reveal'd  that  upward  gazed 
12* 


(  138  )       , 

Intensely  worshipping  : — a  still,  clear  face 
Youthful,  but  brightly  solemn ! — Woman's  cheek 
And  brow  were  there,  in  deep  devotion  meek, 

Yet  glorified  with  inspiration's  trace 
On  its  pure  paleness ;  while,  enthroned  above, 
The  pictured  Virgin,  with  her  smile  of  love, 
Seem'd  bending  o'er  her  votaress. — That  slight 

form! 

Was  that  the  leader  through  the  battle  storm  ? 
Had  the  soft  light  in  that  adoring  eye, 
Guided  the  warrior  where    the    swords   flash'd 

high  ? 
'Twas  so,  even  so ! — and  thou,  the  shepherd's 

child 

Joanne,  the  lowly  dreamer  of  the  wild ! 
Never  before,  and  never  since  that  hour, 
Hath  woman,  mantled  with  victorious  power, 
Stood  forth  as  thou  beside  the  shrine  didst  stand, 
Holy  amidst  the  knighthood  of  the  land  ; 
And  beautiful  with  joy  and  with  renown, 
Lift  thy  white  banner  o'er  the  olden  crown, 
Ransom'd  for  France  by  thee  ! 

The  rites  are  done. 

Now  let  the  dome  with  trumpet-notes  be  shaken, 
And  bid  the  echoes  of  the  tombs  awaken, 

And  come  thou  forth,  that  Heaven's  rejoicing 

sun 

May  give  thee  welcome  from  thine  own  blue 
skies, 

Daughter  of  victory  ! — a  triumphant  strain, 
A.  proud  rich  stream  of  warlike  melodies, 

Gush'd  through  the  portals  of  the  antique  fane 


And  forth  she  came. — Then  rose  a.  nation's  sound ! 
Oh !  what  a  power  to  bid  the  quick  heart  bound, 
The  wind  bears  onward  with  the  stormy  cheer 
Man  gives  to  glory  on  her  high  career ! 
Is  there  indeed  such  power? — far  deeper  dwells 
In  one  kind  household  voice,  to  reach  the  cells 
Whence  happiness  flow'd  forth  ! — the  shouts,  that 

fill'd 

The  hollow  heaven  tempestuously,  were  still'd 
One  moment ;  and  in  that  brief  pause,  the  tone. 
As  of  a  breeze  that  o'er  her  home  had  blown, 
Sank  on  the  bright  maid's  heart. — "Joanne!  "— 

who  spoke 

Like  those  whose  childhood  with  her  child- 
hood grew 
Under   one   roof? — "Joanne!" — that    murmur 

broke 
With  sounrJ"  of  weeping  forth ! — She  turn'd — 

she  knew 

Beside  her,  mark'd  from  all  the  thousands  there, 
In  the  calm  beauty  of  his  silver  hair, 
The  stately  shepherd  ;  and  the  youth,  whose  joy 
From  his  dark  eye  flash'd  proudly  ;  and  the  boy, 
The  youngest-born,  that  ever  loved  her  best  ; 
"  Father  !    and   ye,    my    brothers  !  " — On    the 

breast 

Of  that  grey  sire  she  sank — and  swiftly  back, 
Ev'n  in  an  instant,  to  their  native  track 
Her  free  thoughts  flow'd. — She  saw  the  pomp 

no  more — 

The  plumes,  the  banners  : — to  her  cabin  door, 
And  to  the  Fairy's  fountain  in  the  glade, 
Where  her  young  sisters  by  her  side  had  play'd, 


(140) 

And  to  her  hamlet's  chapel,  where  it  rose 

Hallowing  the  forest  unto  deep  repose, 

Her  spirit  turn'd. — The  very  wood-note,  sung 

In  early  spring-time  by  the  bird,  which  dwelt 
Where  o'er  her  father's  roof  the  beach  leaves  hung, 

Was  in  her  heart ;  a  music  heard  and  felt, 
Winning  her  back  to  nature. — She  unbound 

The  helm  of  many  battles  from  her  head. 
And,  with  her  bright  locks  bow'd  to  sweep  she 
ground, 

Lifting  her  voice  up,  wept  for  joy,  and  said, — 
"  Bless  me,  my  father,  bless  me  !  and  with  thee, 
To  the  still  cabin  and  the  beechen  tree, 
Let  me  return  !  " 

Oh  !  never  did  thine  eye 
Through  the  green  haunts  of  happy  infancy 
Wander  again,  Joanne  ! — too  much  of  fame 
Had  shed  its  radiance  on  thy  peasant  name  ; 
And  bought  alone  by  gifts  beyond  all  price, 
The  trusting  heart's  repose,  the  paradise 
Of  home  with  all  its  loves,  doth  fate  allow 
The  crown  of  glory  unto  woman's  orow. 


THE  CRUSADERS'  WAR  SONG. 

CHIEFTAINS,  lead  on !  our  hearts  beat  high, 

Lead  on  to  Salem's  towers ! 
Who  would  not  deem  it  bliss  to  die, 

Slain  in  a  cause  like  ours  ? 
The  brave  who  sleep  in  soil  of  thine, 
Die  not  entomb'd.  but  shrined.  O  Palestine ! 


(141) 

Souls  of  the  slain  in  holy  war  ! 

Look  from  your  sainted  rest. 
Tell  us  ye  rose  in  Glory's  car, 

To  mingle  with  the  blest  ; 
Tell  us  how  short  the  death-pang's  power, 
How  bright  the  joys  of  your  immortal  bower. 

Strike  the  loud  harp,  ye  minstrel  train  ! 

Pour  forth  your  loftiest  lays  ; 
Each  heart  shall  echo  to  the  strain 

Breath'd  in  the  warrior's  praise. 
Bid  every  string  triumphant  swell 
Th'  inspiring  sounds  that  heroes  love  so  \v     . 

Salem  !  amidst  the  fiercest  hour, 

The  wildest  rage  of  fight, 
Thy  name  shall  lend  our  falchions  power, 

And  nerve  our  hearts  with  might, 
Envied  be  those  for  thee  that  fall, 
Who  find  their  graves  beneath  thy  sa.rcd  wall. 

For  them  no  need  that  sculptured  to'n'~> 

Should  chronicle  their  fame, 
Or  pyramid  record  their  doom, 

Or  deathless  verse  their  name  ; 
Ft  is  enough  that  dust  of  thine 
Should  shroud  their  forms,  O  blessed  Palestine 

Chieftains,  lead  on  !  our  hearts  />3it  high 

For  combat's  glorious  hour  ; 
Soon  shall  the  red-cross  banner  fly 

On  Salem's  loftiest  tower! 
We  burn  to  mingle  in  the  strife, 
Where  but  to  die  ensures  eternal  life. 


THE  VAUDOIS'  WIFE. 

TUT  voice  is  in  mine  ear,  beloved! 

Thy  look  is  in  my  heart, 
Thy  bosom  is  my  resting-place, 

And  yet  I  must  depart. 
Earth  on  my  soul  is  strong  —  too  strong 

Too  precious  is  its  chain, 
All  woven  of  thy  love,  dear  friend, 

Yet  vain  —  though  mighty  —  vain! 


Thou  seest  mine  eye  grow  dim,  boi 

Thou  seest  my  life-blood  flow.- 
Bow  to  the  chastener  silently, 

And  calmly  let  me  go  ! 
A  little  while  between  our  hearts 

The  shadowy  gulf  must  lie, 
Yet  have  we  for  their  communing 

Still,  still  Eternity  ! 


Alas  I  thy  tears  are  on  my  cheek, 

My  spirit  they  detain  ; 
I  know  that  from  thine  agony 

Is  wrung  that  burning  rain. 
Rest,  kindest,  weep  not  ;  —  make  the  pang, 

The  bitter  conflict,  less  — 
Oh  !  sad  it  is,  and  yet  a  joy, 

To  fell  thy  love's  excess! 


(143) 

But  calm  thee  !     Let  the  thought  of  death 

A  solemn  peace  restore  ! 
The  voice  that  must  be  silent  soon, 

Would  speak  to  thee  once  more, 
That  thou  may'st  bear  its  blessings  on 

Through  years  of  after  life — 
A  token  of  consoling  love, 

Even  from  this  hour  of  strife. 


I  bless  thee  for  the  noble  heart, 

The  tender,  and  the  true, 
Where  mine  hath  found  the  happiest  rest 

That  e'er  fond  woman's  knew  ; 
I  bless  thee,  faithful  friend  and  guide, 

For  my  own,  my  treasured  shaie, 
In  the  mournful  secrets  of  thy  soul, 

In  thy  sorrow,  in  thy  prayer. 

I  bless  th^e  for  the  kind  looks  and  words 

Shower'd  on  my  path  like  dew, 
For  all  the  love  in  those  deep  eyes 

A  gladness  ever  new  ! 
For  the  voice  which  ne'er  to  mine  replied 

But  in  kindly  tones  of  cheei . 
For  every  spring  of  happiness 

My  soul  hath  tasted  here  ! 

I  bless  thee  for  the  last  rich  boon 

Won  from  affection  tried, 
The  right  to  gaze  on  death  with  (hee, 

To  perish  by  thy  side  ! 


(144) 

And  yet  more  for  the  glorious  hope 
Even  to  these  moments  giver.-  — 

Did  not  thy  spirit  ever  lift 

The  trust  of  mine  to  Heaver.  ? 


Now  be  thou  strong  ?     Oh !  knew  we  not 

Our  path  must  lead  to  this  ? 
A  shadow  and  a  trembling  still 

Were  mingled  with  our  bliss ! 
We  plighted  our  young  hearts  wher  rtorms 

Were  dark  upon  the  sky, 
In  full,  deep  knowledge  of  their  tas-k 

To  suffer  and  to  die  ! 


Be  strong  !  I  leave  the  living  voice 

Of  this,  my  martyr'd  blood, 
With  the  thousand  echoes  of  the  hills. 

With  the  torrent's  foaming  flood,— 
A  spirit  'midst  the  caves  to  dwell, 

A  token  on  the  air, 
To  rouse  the  valiant  from  repose, 

The  fainting  from  despair. 

Hear  it,  and  bear  thou  on,  my  love ! 

Aye,  joyously,  endure ; 
Our  mountains  must  be  altars  yet, 

Inviolate  and  pure ; 
There  must  our  God  be  worshipp'd  still 

With  the  worship  of  the  free — 
farewell !  there's  but  one  pang  in  death, 

One  only, — leaving  thee  ! 


(145) 


THE  SWITZER'S  WIFE. 

IT  was  the  time  when  children  bound  to  meet 
Their  father's  homeward  step  from  field  or  hill, 

And  when  the  herd's  returning  bells  are  sweet 
In  the  Swiss  valleys,  and  the  lakes  grow  still, 

And  the  last  note  of  that  wild  horn  swells  by, 

Which  haunts  the  exile's  heart  with  melody. 

And  lovely  smiled  full  many  an  Alpine  home, 
Toueh'd  with  the  crimson  of  the  dying  hour. 

Which  lit  its  low  roof  by  the  torrent's  foam, 
And  pierced  its  lattice  through  the  vine-hung 
bower ; 

But  one,  the  loveliest  o'er  the  land  that  rose, 

Then  first  look'd  mournful  in  its  green  repose. 

For  Werner  sat  beneath  the  linden  tree, 

That  sent  its  lulling  whispers  through  his  door, 

Even  as  man  sits  whose  heart  alone  would  be 
With  some  deep  care,  and  thus  can  find  no  more 

Th'  accustom'd  joy  in  all  which  evening  brings, 

Gathering  a  household  with  her  quiet  wings. 

His  wife  stood  hush'd  before  him, — sad,  yet  mild 

In  her  beseeching  mien  ; — he  mark'd  it  not. 
The  silvery  laughter  of  his  bright-hair'd  child 
Rang  from  the  greensward  round  the  shelter'd 
spot, 

13 


(146) 

But  seenrd  unheard  ;  until  at  last  the  boy 
-Raised  from  his  heaped-ap  flowers  a  glance  of  />y. 

And  met  his  father's  face  :  but  then  a  change 
Passfd  swiftly  o'er  the  brow  of  infant  glee, 

And  a  quick  sense  of  something  dimly  strange 
Brought  him  from  play  to  stand  beside  the  knee 

So  often  ctimb'd,  and  lift  his  faring  eyes 

That  shone  through  clouds  of  sorrowful  surprise. 

Then  the  prond  bosom  of  the  strong  man  shook  ; 

Bat  tenderly  his  babe's  lair  mother  laid 
Her  hand  on  his,  and  with  a  pleading  look, 

Through  tears  half  quivering,  o'er  him  bent 

and 


-'What  grief],  dear  friend,  hath  made  thy  heart 

its  prey, 
That  thou  shonldst  turn  thee   from  our  love 

away? 

"  It  is  too  sad  to  see  thee  thus,  my  friend  ! 

Mark'st  thou  the  wonder  on  thy  boy's  fair  brow, 
Hissing  the  smile  from  thine  ?     Oh!  cheer  thee! 

bend 
To  his  soft  arms,  unseal  thy  thoughts  e'en 

now! 

Toon  dost  not  kindly  to  withhold  the  share 
Of  tried  affection  in  thy  secret  care." 

He  look'd  up  into  that  sweet  earnest  face, 
But  sternly,  mournfully:  not  yet  the  band 

Was  loosened  from  his  soul  ;  its  inmost  place 
Not  yet  unreiTd  by  lore's  o'ennastering  hand. 


(147) 

"  Speak  low ! "  he  cried,  and  pointed  where  on 

high 
The  white  Alps  glitter'd   through   the  solemn 

sky  : 

"  We  must  speak  low  amidst  our  ancient  hills 
And  their  free  torrents ;  for  the  days  are  come 

When  tyranny  lies  crouch'd  by  forest  rills, 
And  meets  the  shepherd  in  his  mountain  home. 

Go,  pour  the  wine  of  our  own  grapes  in  fear, 

Keep  silence  by  the  hearth !  its  foes  are  near. 

"  The  envy  of  the  oppressor's  eye  hath  been 

Upon  my  heritage.     I  sit  to-night 
Under  my  household  tree,  if  not  serene, 

Yet  with  the  faces  best  beloved  in  sight : 
To-morrow  eve  may  find  me  chain'd,  and  thee — 
How  can  I  bear  the  boy's  young  smiles  to  see  ?  " 

The   bright  blood  left  that   youthful    mother's 
cheek  ; 

Back  on  the  linden  stem  she  lean'd  her  form, 
And  her  lip  trembled,  as  it  strove  to  speak, 

Like  a  frail  harpstring,  shaken  by  the  storm. 
'Twas  but  a  moment,  and  the  faintness  pass'd, 
And  the  free  Alpine  spirit  woke  at  last. 

And  she,  that  ever  through  her  home  had  moved 
With  her  meek  thonghtfulness  and  quiet  smile 

Of  woman,  calmly  loving  and  beloved, 
And  timid  in  her  happiness  the  while., 

Stood  brightly  forth,  and  steadfastly,  that  hour, 

Her  clear  glance  kindling  into  sudden  power. 


(1*8) 

Aye,  pale  she  stood,  but  with  an  eye  of  light, 
And  took  her  fair  child  to  her  holy  breast, 

And  lifted  her  soft  voice,  that  gathei'd  might 
As  it  found  language : — "Are  we  thus  oppress'd ' 

Then  must  we  rise  upon  our  mountain-sod, 

And  man  must  arm,  and  woman  call  on  God  ! 

"I    know    what    thou  wouldst   do, — and  be  i* 

done  ! 

Thy  soul  is  darken'd  with  its  fears  for  me. 
Trust  me  to  Heaven,  my  husband ! — this,  thy 

son, 
The  babe  whom  I  have  borne  thee,  must  be 

free ! 

And  the  sweet  memory  of  our  pleasant  hearth 
May  well  give  strength — if  aught  be  strong  on 

earth. 

"  Thou  hast  been  brooding  o'er  the  silent  dread 
Of  my  desponding  tears  ;  now  lift  once  more, 

My  hunter  of  the  hills !  thy  stately  head, 
And  let  thine  eagle  glance  my  joy  restore  ! 

I  can  bear  all,  but  seeing  thee  subdued, — 

Take  to  thee  back  thine  own  undaunted  mood. 

"  Go  forth  beside  the  waters,  and  along 

The  chamois  paths,  and  through  the  forests  go ; 

And  tell,  in  burning  words,  thy  tale  of  wrong 
To  the  brave  hearts  that  'midst  the  hamlets 
glow 

God  shall  be  with  thee,  my  beloved  ! — Away ! 

Bless  but  thy  child,  and  leave  me. — I  can  pray  I ' 


(  U9  ) 

Flo  sprang  up  like  a  warrior-youth  awaking 

To  clarion  sounds  upon  the  ringing  air ; 
[Ie  caught  her  to  his  breast,  while  proud  tears 

breaking 
From    his    dark    eyes,  fell    o'er    her  braided 

hair, — 

And  "  Wrorthy  art  thou,"  was  his  joyous  cry, 
"  That  man  for  thee  should  gird  himself  to  die. 

"  My  bride,  my  wife,  the  mother  of  my  child  ! 

Now  shall  thy  name  be  armor  to  my  heart  ; 
And  this  our  land,  by  chains  no  more  defiled, 

Be  taught  of  thee  to  choose  the  better  part ! 
I  go — thy  spirit  on  my  words  shall  dwell, 
Thy  gentle  voice  shall  stir  the  Alps — Farewell '  " 

And  thus  thev  parted,  by  the  quiet  lake, 

In  the  clear   starlight :    he.    the   strength   to 

rouse 

Of  the  free  hills  ;  she,  thoughtful  for  his  sake, 
To   rock    her   child    beneath  the  whispering 

boughs, 

Singing  its  blue,  half  curtain'd  eyes  to  sleep, 
With  a  low  hymn,  amidst  the  stillness  deep 

13* 


(150) 
WASHINGTON'S    STATUE. 

SENT  FROM  ENGLAND  TO  AMERICA. 

YES  !  rear  thy  guardian  hero's  form 
On  thy  proud  soil,  thou  western  world ! 

A  watcher  through  each  sigh  of  storm, 
O'er  freedom's  flag  unfurl'd. 

There,  as  before  a  shrine,  to  bow, 
Bid  thy  true  sons  their  children  lead : 

The  language  of  that  noble  brow 
For  all  things  good  shall  plead. 

The  spirit  rear'd  in  patriot  fight, 

The  virtue  born  of  home  and  hearth, 

There  calmly  throned,  a  holy  light 
Shall  pour  o'er  chainless  earth. 

And  let  that  work  of  England's  hand, 
Sent  through  the  blast  and  surge's  roar, 

So  girt  with  tranquil  glory  stand, 
For  ages  on  thy  shore ! 

Snch,  through  all  time,  the  greetings  be 
That  with  the  Atlantic  billow  sweep  ! 

Telling  the  mighty  and  the  free 
Of  brothers  o'er  the  deep. 


(151) 


THE  PALM  TREE. 

IT  waved  not  through  an  Eastern  sky, 
Beside  a  fount  of  Araby  ; 
It  was  not  fann'd  by  southern  breeze 
In  some  green  Isle  of  Indian  seas, 
Nor  did  its  graceful  shadow  sleep 
O'er  stream  of  Afric,  lone  and  deep. 

But  fair  the  exiled  palm-tree  grew 
Midst  foliage  of  no  kindred  hue ; 
Through  the  laburnum's  dropping  gold 
Rose  the  light  shaft  of  orient  moujd, 
And  Europe's  violets,  faintly  sweet. 
Purpled  the  moss-beds  at  its  feet. 

Strange  look'd  it  there  ! — the  willow  stream'd 
Where  silvery  waters  near  it  gleam'd  ; 
The  lime  -bough  lured  the  honey-bee 
To  murmur  by  the  desert's  tree, 
And  showers  of  snowy  roses  made 
A  lustre  in  its  fan-like  shade. 

There  came  an  eve  of  festal  hours — 
Rich  music  fill'd  that  garden's  bowers  ; 
Lamps  that  from  flowering  branches  hung, 
On  sparks  of  dew  soft  colors  flung, 
And  bright  forms  glanced — a  fairy  show- 
Under  the  blossoms  to  and  fro. 


(152) 

But  one,  a  lone  one,  midst  the  throng 
Seem'd  reckless  of  all  dance  or  song : 
He  was  a  youth  of  dusky  mien, 
Whereon  the  Indian  sun  had  been, 
Of  crested  brow,  and  long  black  hair — 
A  stranger,  like  the  palm-tree,  there. 

And  slowly,  sadly,  moved  his  plumes, 
Glittering  athwart  the  leafy  glooms  ; 
He  pass'd  the  pale  green  olives  by, 
Nor  won  the  chestnut-flowers  his  eye  ; 
But  when  to  that  sole  palm  he  came, 
Then  shot  a  rapture  through  his  frame  ' 

To  him,  to  him  its  rustling  spoke, 

The  silence  of  his  soul  it  broke  ! 

It  whisper'd  of  his  own  bright  isle, 

That  lit  the  ocean  with  a  smile  ; 

Ay,  to  his  ear  that  native  tone 

Had  something  of  the  sea-wave's  moan! 

His  mother's  cabin  home,  that  lay 
Where  feathery  cocoas  fringed  the  bay ; 
The  dashing  of  his  brethren's  oar, 
The  conch-note  heard  along  the  shore ; — 
All  through  his  wakening  bosom  swept, 
He  clasp'd  his  country's  tree  and  wept ! 

Oh  !  scorn  him  not ! — the  strength  whereby 

The  patriot  girds  himself  to  die, 

The  unconquerable  power,  which  fills 

The  freeman  battling  on  his  hills, 

These  have  one  fountain  deep  and  clear — 

The  same  whence  gush'd  the  child-like  tear! 


(153) 


THE  TRAVELLER'S  EVENING  SONG 

FATHER,  guide  me  !  Day  declines, 
Hollow  winds  are  in  the  pines ; 
Darkly  waves  each  giant  bough 
O'er  the  sky's  last  crimson  gloAv  ; 
Hush'd  is  now  the  convent's  bell, 
Which  erewhile  with  breezy  swell 
From  the  purple  mountains  bore 
Greetings  to  the  sunset-shore. 
Now  the  sailor's  vesper-hymn 

Dies  away. 
Father!  in  the  forest  dim, 

Be  my  stay  ! 

In  the  low  and  shivering  thrill 
Of  the  leaves  that  late  hung  still ; 
In  the  dull  and  muffled  tone 
Of  the  sea-wave's  distant  moan ; 
In  the  deep  tints  of  the  sky, 
There  are  signs  of  tempest  nigh. 
Ominous,  with  sullen  sound, 
Falls  the  closing  dusk  around. 
Father !  through  the  storm  and  shade 

O'er  the  wild, 
Oh  !  be  Thou  the  lone  one's  aid — 

Save  thy  child  !  • 

Many  a  swift  and  sounding  plume 
Homewards,  through  the  boding  gloom, 


(154) 

O'er  my  way  hath  flitted  fast/ 
Since,  the  farewell  sunbeam  pass'd 
From  the  chestnut's  ruddy  bark, 
And  the  pools,  now  lone  and  dark, 
Where  the  wakening  night-winds  sigh 
Through  the  long  reeds  mournfully. 
Homeward,  homeward,  all  things  haste- 
God  of  might ! 

Shield  the  homeless  midst  the  waste, 
Be  his  light ! 

In  his  distant  cradle  nest, 
Now  my  babe  is  laid  to  rest ; 
Beautiful  his  slumber  seems 
With  a  glow  of  heavenly  dreams, 
Beautiful,  o'er  that  bright  sleep, 
Hang  soft  eyes  of  fondness  deep, 
Where  his  mother  bends  to  pray, 
For  the  loved  and  far  away. — 
Father  !  guard  that  household  bower, 

Hear  that  prayer ! 
Back,  through  thine  all-guiding  power, 

Lead  me  there ! 

Darker,  wilder,  grows  the  night— 
Not  a  star  sends  quivering  light 
Through  the  massy  arch  of  shade 
By  the  stern  old  forest  made. 
Thou  !  to  whose  unslumbering  eyes 
All  my  pathway  open  lies, 
By  thy  Son,  who  knew  distress 
lu  the  lonely  wilderness, 


(155) 

Where  no  roof  to  that  blest  head 

Shelter  gave — 
Father !  through  the  time  of  dread, 

Save,  oh  !  save  ! 


THE  SONGS  OF  OUR  FATHERS. 

SING  them  upon  the  sunny  hills, 

When  days  are  long  and  bright, 
And  the  blue  gleam  of  shining  rills 

Is  loveliest  to  the  sight ! 
Sing  them  along  the  misty  moor, 

Where  ancient  hunters  roved, 
And  swell  them  through  the  torrent's  roar, 

The  songs  our  fathers  loved  ! 

The  songs  their  souls  rejoiced  to  hear 

When  harps  were  in  the  hall, 
And  each  proud  note  made  lance  and  spear 

Thrill  on  the  banner'd  wall : 
The  songs  that  through  our  valleys  green, 

Sent  on  from  age  to  age, 
Like  his  own  river's  voice,  have  been 

The  peasant's  heritage. 

The  reaper  sings  them, when  the  vale 

Is  fill'd  with  plumy  sheaves  ; 
The  woodman,  by  the  starlight  pale, 

Cheer'd  homeward  through  the  leaves: 


(  156  ) 

And  unto  them  the  glancing  oars 

A  joyous  measure  keep, 
Where  the  dark  rocks  that  crest  our  shores 

Dash  back  the  foaming  deep. 

So  let  it  be  ! — a  light  they  shed 

O'er  each  old  fount  and  grove  ; 
A  memory  of  the  gentle  dead, 

A  lingering  spell  of  love. 
Murmuring  the  names  of  mighty  men, 

They  bid  our  streams  roll  on, 
And  link  high  thoughts  to  every  glen 

Where  valiant  deeds  were  done. 

Teach  them  your  children  round  the  hearth 

When  evening  fires  burn  clear, 
And  in  the  fields  of  harvest  mirth, 

And  on  the  hills  of  deer  : 
So  shall  each  unforgotten  word, 

When  far  those  loved  ones  roam. 
Call  back  the  hearts  which  once  it  stirr'd, 

To  childhood's  holy  home. 

The  green  woods  of  their  native  land 

Shall  whisper  in  the  strain, 
The  voices  in  thy  household  band 

Shall  breathe  their  names  again  ; 
The  heathery  heights  in  vision  rise 

Where,  like  the  stag,  they  roved— 
Sing  to  your  sons  those  melodies, 

The  songs  your  fathers  Joved  ' 


(157) 


THE  AMERICAN  FOREST  GIRL. 

WILDLY  and  mournfully  the  Indian  drum 
On    the    deep    hush    of    moonlight     forests 

broke  ; — 
"  Sing    us   a   death    song,    for   thine    hour    is 

come," — 

So  the  red  warriors  to  their  captive  spoke. 
Still,  and  amidst  those  dusky  forms  alone, 

A  youth,  a  fair-hair'd  youth  of  England  stood, 
Like  a  king's  son ;  though  from  his  cheek  had 

flown  . 

The  mantling  crimson  of  the  island-blood, 
And    his    press'd   lips  look'd  marble. — Fiercely 

bright, 

And  high  around  him,  blazed  the  fires  of  night, 
Rocking  beneath  the  cedars  to  and  fro, 
As  the  wind  pass'd,  and  with  a  fitful  glow 
Lighting  the  victim's  face : — But  who  could  tell 
Of  what  within  his  secret  heart  befell, 
Known  but  to  heaven  that  hour  ? — Perchance  a 

thought 

Of  hid  far  home  then  so  intensely  wrought, 
That  its  full  image,  pictured  to  his  eye 
On  the  dark  ground  of  mortal  agony, 
Rose  clear  as  day  ! — and  he  might  see  the  band, 
Of  his  young  sisters  wandering  hand  in  hand, 
Where  the  laburnums  droop'd  ;  or  haply  binding 
The  jasmine,  up  the  door's  low  pillars  winding 
14 


(158) 

Or,  as  day  closed  upon  their  gentle  mirth, 
Gathering,  with  braided  hair,  around  the  hearth 
Where  sat  their  mother; — and  that  mother's  face 
Its  grave  sweet  smile  yet  wearing  in  the  place 
Where  so  it  ever  smiled! — Perchance  the  prayer 
Learn'd  at  her  knee  came  back  on  his  despair  ; 
The  blessing  from  her  voice,  the  very  tone 
Of  her  "Good  night,"  might  breathe  from  boy- 
hood gone  ! 

He  started  and  look'd  up ; — thick  cypress  boughs 
Full  of  strange  sound,  waved  o'er  him.  darkly 

red 

I'. i  the  broad  stormy  firelight  ; — savage  brows, 
With    tall    plumes    crested    and   wild    hues 

o'erspread, 

Girt  him  like  feverish  phantoms  ;  and  pale  stars 
Look'd  through  the  branches  as  through  dungeon 

bars, 

Shedding  no  hope. — He  knew,  he  felt  his  doom — 
Oh  !  what  a  tale  to  shadow  with  its  gloom 
That  happy  hall  in  England  ! — Idle  fear  ! 
Would  the  winds  tell  it  ? — who    might  dream 

or  hear 
The  secrets  of  the  forests  ? — To  the  stake 

They   bound   him ;    and   that   proud   young 

•  soldier  strove 
His  father's  spirit  in  his  breast  to  wake, 

Trusting  to  die  in  silence !     He,  the  love 
Of  many  hearts  ! — the  fondly  rear'd, — the  fair, 
Gladdening  all  eyes  to  see  ! — And  fetter'd  there 
He  stood  beside  his  death-pyre,  and  the  brand 
Flamed  no  to  light  it,  in  the  chieftain's  hand. 


(159) 

fie  thought  upon  his  God. — Hush  !  hark  !  a  cry 

Breaks  on  the  stern  and  dread  solemnity, — 

A   step   hath    pierced    the    ring! — Who    dares 

intrude 

On  the  dark  hunters  in  their  vengeful  mood ! — 
A  girl — a  young  slight  girl — a  fawn-like  child 
Of  green  savannas  and  the  leafy  wild, 
Springing    unmark'd    till    then,    as   some   lone 

flower, 

Happy  because  the  sunshine  is  its  dower  ; 
Yet  one  that  knew  how  early  tears  are  shed, — 
For  hers  had  mourn'd  a  playmate  brother  dead. 

She  had  sat  gazing  on  the  victim  long, 

Until  the  pity  of  her  soul  grew  strong  ; 

And,  by  its  passion's  deepening  fervor  sway'd, 

Ev'n  to  the  stake  she  rush'd,  and  gently  laid 

His  bright  head  on  her  bosom,  and  around 

His  form  her  slender  arms  to  shield  it  round 

Like  close   Liannes ;  then  raised  her  glittering 

eye 
And  clear-toned  voice  that  said,  "  He  shall  not 

die  !  " 

"  He  shall  not  die  !  " — the  gloomy  forest  thrill 'd 
To  that  sweet  sound.     A  sudden  wonder  fell 
On  the  fierce  throng ;   and  heart  and  hand  wero 

still'd, 

Struck  down,  as  by  the  whisper  of  a  spell. 
They  gazed, — their  dark  souls  bow'd  before  the 

rnaid, 
She  of  the  dancing  step  in  wood  and  glade ! 


(160) 

And,  as  her  cheek  flush'd  through  its  olive  hue, 
As  her  black  tresses  to  the  night  wind  flew, 
Something  o'ermaster'd  them  from  that  young 

mien — 

Something  of  heaven,  in  silence  felt  and  seen  ; 
And  seeming,  to  their  child-like  faith,  a  token 
That  the  Great  Spirit  by  her  voice  had  spoken. 

They  loosed  the  bonds  that  held  their  captive's 

breath ; 

From  his  pale  lips  they  took  the  cup  of  death  ; 
They  quench'd  the  brand  beneath  the  cypress 

tree; 
"  Away,"  they  cried,  "  young  stranger,  thou  art 

free !  " 


CASABIANCA. 

THE  boy  stood  on  the  burning  deck 
Whence  all  but  he  had  fled  ; 

The  flame  that  lit  the  battle's  wreck, 
Shone  round  him  o'er  the  dead. 

Yet  beautiful  and  bright  he  stood, 

As  born  to  rule  the  storm  ; 
A  creature  of  heroic  blood, 

A  proud,  though  child-like  form. 

The  flames  roll'd  on — he  would  not  go 
Without  his  Father's  word  ; 

That. Father,  faint  in  death  below. 
His  voice  no  longer  heard. 


(161) 

He  call'd  aloud  :— "  Say,  Father,  say 

If  yet  my  task  is  done  ?  " 
He  knew  not  that  the  chieftain  lay 

Unconscious  of  his  son. 

"  Speak.  Father  !  "  once  again  he  cried, 

"  If  I  may  yet  be  gone  !  " 
And  but  the  booming  shots  replied, 

And  fast  the  flames  roll'd  on. 

Upon  his  brow  he  felt  their  breath, 

And  in  his  waving  hair, 
And  look'd  from  that  lone  post  of  death, 

In  still,  yet  brave  despair. 

And  shouted  but  once  more  aloud, 

"  My  Father  !  must  I  stay  ?  " 
While  o'er  him  fast,  through  sail  and  shroud, 

The  wreathing  fires  made  way. 

They  wrapt  the  ship  in  splendor  wild, 

They  caught  the  flag  on  high, 
And  streamed  above  the  gallant  child, 

Like  banners  in  the  sky. 

There  came  a  burst  of  thunder  sound- 

The  boy-^-oh  !  where  was  he  ? 
Ask  of  the  winds  that  far  around 

With  fragments  strew 'd  the  sea  ! — 

With  mast  and  helm,  and  pennon  fair, 
That  well  had  bore  their  part — 

But  the  noblest  thing  which  perish'd  there 
Was  that  young  faithful  heart. 

14*  " 


(162) 


GREEK  FUNERAL  CHANT,  OR 
MYRIOLOGUE. 

A  WAIL  was  heard  around  the  bed,  the  death-Leii 

of  the  young, 
Am_dst  her  tears  the  Funeral  Chant  a  mournful 

mother  sung. — 
"  lanthis  !  dost  thou  sleep  ? — Thou  sleep'st ! — 

but  this  is  not  the  rest, 
The  breathing  and  the  rosy  calm,  I  have  pil- 

low'd  on  my  breast ! 
I  lull'd  thee  not  to   this  repose,  lanthis  !    my 

sweet  son  ! 
As  in  thy  glowing  childhood's  tiino  by  twilight 

I  have  done  ! 
How  is  it  that  I  bear  to  stand  and  look  upon 

thee  now? 
And  that  I  die  not,  seeking  death  on  thy  pale 

glorious  brow  ? 

"  I  look  upon  thee,  thou  that  wert  of  all  most 

fair  and  brave ! 
I  see  thee  wearing  still  too  much  of  beauty  for 

the  grave ! 
Though   mournfully    thy   smile    is    fix'd,    and 

heavily  thine  eye 
Hath  shut  above  the  falcon-glance  that  in  it 

loved  to  lie  ; 
And  fast  is  bound  the  springing  step,  that  seem'd 

on  breezes  borne, 


(163) 

When  to  thy  couch  I  came  and  said, — c  Wako, 

hunter,  wake  !  'tis  morn  ! ' 
Yet  art  thou  lovely  still,  my  flower !  imtouch'd. 

by  slow  decay, — 
And  I,  the  wither'd  stem,  remain — I  would  that 

grief  might  slay  ! 

"  Oh  !  ever  when  I  met  thy  look,  I  knew  that 

this  would  be ! 
I  knew  too  well  that  length  of  days  was  not  a 

gift  for  thee ! 
I   saw  it  in  thy  kindling   cheek,  and   in   thy 

bearing  high ! — 
A  voice  came  whispering  to  my  soul,  and  told 

me  thou  must  die ! 
That  thou  must  die,  my  fearless  one  !  where 

swords  were  flashing  red. — 
Why  doth  a  mother  live  to  say — My  first-born 

and  my  dead  ? 
They  tell  me  of  thy  youthful  fame,  they  talk  of 

victory  won — 
Speak  thou,  and  I  will  hear !  my  child,  lanthis ! 

my  sweet  son !  " 

A  wail  was  heard  around  the  bed,  the  death-bed 

of  the  young, 
A  fair-hair'd  bride  the  Funeral  Chant  amidst  her 

weeping  sung. 
'  lanthis !  look'st  thou  not  on  me  ? — Can  love 

indeed  be  fled  ? 
When   was   it   woe   before   to   gaze  upon  thy 

stately  head  ' 


(164) 

I  would  that  I  had  follow'd  tlioc,  lanthis,  my 

beloved ! 
And    stood    as   woman    oft    hath   stood    where 

faithful  hearts  are  proved ! 
That  I  had  bound  a  breastplate  on,  and  battled 

at  thy  side — 
I    would  have  been  a  blessed  thing  together  had 

we  died  ! 


"  But  where  was  I  when  thou  didst  fall  beneath 

the  fatal  sword  ? 
Was  I  beside    the    sparkling   fount,   or   at   the 

peaceful  board  ? 
Or   singing   some    sweet    song    of   old,    in    the 

shadow  of  the  vine, 
Or  praying  to  the  saints  for  thee,  before  the  holy 

shrine  ? 

And  thou  wert  lying  low  the  while,  the  life- 
drops  from  thy  heart 
Fast    gushing    like    a    mountain-spring ! — and 

couldst  thou  thus  depart  ? 
Couldst  thou  d'epart,  nor  on  my  lips  pour  out 

thy  fleeting  breath  ? — 
Oh  !  I  was  with  thee  but  in  joy,  that  should 

have  been  in  death  ! 

'  Yes  I  was  with  thee  when  the  dance  through 

mazy  rings  was  led, 
And  when  the  lyre  and  voice  were   tuned,  and 

when  the  feast  was  spread  ! 
But  not  where  noble  blood  flow'd  forth,  where 

sounding  javelins  flew — 


(165) 

Why  did  I  hear  love's  first  sweet  words,  and  not 

its  last  adieu  ? 
What  now  can  breathe  of  gladness  more, — what 

scene,  what  hour,  what  tone  ? 
The  blue  skies  fade  with  all  their  lights ;  they 

fade,  since  thou  art  gone  ! 
Even  that  must  leave  me,  that  still  face,  by  all 

my  tears  unmoved — 
Take  me  from  this  dark  we  r'd  with  thee,  lanthis, 

my  beloved  !  " 

A  wail  was  heard  around  the  bed,  the  death-bed 

of  the  young, 
Amidst  her  tears  the  Funeral  Chant  i  mournful 

sister  sung. 
"  lanthis !  brother  of  my  soul ! — oh  where  are 

now  the  days 
That  laugh'd  among  the  deep  green  hills,  on  all 

our  infant  plays  ? 
When  we  two  sported  by  the  streams,  or  trackrd 

them  to  their  source, 
And  like  a  stag's,  the  rocks  along,  was  thy  fleet, 

fearless  course, 
I  see  the  pines  there  waving  yet,  I  see  the  rills 

descend, 
[  see  thy  bounding  step  no  more — my  brother 

and  my  friend  ! 

"  I   come    with   flowers — for    spring    is   come ! 

lanthis  !  art  thou  here  ? 
I  bring  the  garlands  she  hath  brought,  I  cast 

them  on  thy  bier  ! 


(166) 

Thou  shouldst  be  crown'd  with  victory's  cro  <vn-". 

but  oh  !  more  meet  they  seem. 
The  first  faint  violets  of  the  wood,  and  lilies  of 

the  stream ! 
More  meet  for  one  so  fondly  loved,  and  laid  thus 

early  low — 
Alas !    how  sadly  sleeps   thy   face   amidst   the 

sunshine's  glow  : 
The  golden  glow  that  through  thy  heart  was 

wont  such  joy  to  send, — 
Woe  !    that  it  smiles,  and  not  for  thee  ! — my 

brother  and  my  friend  !  " 


GENTLE  and  lovely  form, 
What  didst  thou  here, 

When  the  fierce  battle-storm 
Bore  down  the  spear  ? 

Banner  and  shiver'd  crest, 

Beside  thee  strown, 
Tell,  that  amidst  the  best, 

Thy  work  was  done  ! 

Yet  strangely,  sadly  fair. 

O'er  the  wild  scene, 
Gleams  through  its  golden  hair 

That  brow  serene. 


(107) 

Low  lies  the  stately  head, — - 
Earth-bound  the  free  : 

How  gave  those  haughty  dead 
A  place  to  thee  ? 

Slumberer  !  thine  early  bier 
Friends  should  have  crov.-n'd, 

Many  a  flower  and  tear 
Shedding  around. 

Soft  voices,  clear  and  young, 

Mingling  their  swell, 
Should  o'er  the  dust  have  sung 

Earth's  last  farewell. 

Sisters,  above  the  grave 

Of  thy  repose, 
Should  have  bid  violets  wave 

With  the  white  rose. 

Now  must  the  trumpet's  note. 

Savage  and  shrill, 
For  requiem  o'er  thee  float, 

Thou  fair  and  still ! 

And  the  swift  charger  sweep, 

In  full  career, 
Trampling  thy  place  of  sleep.— 

Why  earnest  thou  here  ? 

Why  ?  ask  the  true  heart  why 

Woman  hath  been 
Ever  where  brave  men  die, 

Unshrinking  seen  ? 


(168) 

Unto  this  harvest  ground 
Proud  reapers  came,— 

Some,  for  that  stirring  soundj 
A  warrior's  name  ; 

Some,  for  the  stormy  play 

And  joy  of  strife  ; 
And  some,  to  fling  away 

A  weary  life  ; — 

But  thou,  pale  sleeper,  thou, 
With  the  slight  frame, 

And  the  rich  locks,  whose  glow 
Death  cannot  tame  ; 

Only  one  thought,  one  power, 

Thee  could  have  led, 
So,  through  the  tempest's  hour, 

To  lift  thy  head  ! 

Only  the  true,  the  strong, 
The  love,  whose  trust 

Woman's  deep  soul  too  long 
Pours  on  the  dust ! 


(169) 


THE  FESTAL  HOUR. 

WHEN  are  the  lessons  given 
That  shake  the  startled  earth?     When  wakes 

the  foe 
While    the    friend    sleeps?      When    falls    the 

traitor's  blow  ? 

When  are  proud  sceptres  riven, 
High  hopes  o'erthrown  ?— It  is  when  lands  rejoice, 
When  cities  blaze  and  lift  th'  exulting  voice, 
And  wave  their  banners  to  the  kindling  heaven ! 

Fear  ye  the  festal  hour  ! 
When  mirth  o'erflows,  then  tremble  ! — 'Twas  a 

night 
Of  gorgeous  revel,  wreaths,  and  dance,  and  light, 

When  through  the  regal  bower 
The  trumpet  peal'd,  ere  yet  the  song  was  done, 
And  there  were  shrieks  in  golden  Babylon, 
And  trampling  armies,  ruthless  in  their  powei. 

The  marble  shrines  were  crown'd  : 
Young  voices  through  the  blue  Athenian  sky, 
And  Dorian  reeds,  made  summer  melody, 

And  censers  waved  around  ; 
And  lyres  were  strung  and  bright  libations  pour'd ! 
When,  through  the  streets,  flash'd  out  th'  avenging 

sword, 

Fearless  and  free,  the  sword  with  myrtles  bound ! 
15 


(170) 

Through  Rome  a  triumph  pass'd. 
Rich  in  her  sun-god's  mantling  beams  went  by 
That  long  array  of  glorious  pageantry, 

With  shout  and  trumpet-blast. 
An  empire's  gems  their  starry  splendor  shed 
O'er  the  proud  march ;  a  king  in  chains  was  led ; 
1  stately  victor,  crown'd  and  robed,  came  last. 

And  many  a  Dryad's  bower 
Had  lent  the  laurel's  which,  in  waving  play, 
Stirr'd  the   warm  air,  and  glisten'd  round  his 

way, 

As  a  quick-flashing  shower. 
-O'er    his   own  porch,  meantime,  the  cypress 

hung, 

Through  his  fair  halls  a  cry  of  anguish  rung — 
Woe  for  the  dead  ! — the  father's  broken  flower ! 

A  sound  of  lyre  and  song, 
In  the  still  night,  went  floating  o'er  the  Nile, 
Whose  waves,  by  many  an  old  mysterious  pile, 

Swept  with  that  voice  along  ; 
And  lamps  were  shining  o'er  the  red  wine's  foam 
Where  a  chief  revell'd  in  a  monarch's  dome, 
And  fresh  rose-garlands  deck'd  a  glittering  throng. 

'Twas  Antony  that  bade 

The  joyous  chords  ring  out ! — but  strains  arose 
Of  wilder  omen  at  the  banquet's  close ! 

Sounds,  by  no  mortal  made, 
Shook  Alexandria  through  her  streets  that  night. 
And  pass'd — and  with  another  sunset's  light, 
The  kingly  Reman  on  his  bier  was  laid. 


(171) 

Bright  'midst  its  vineyards  lay 
The  fair  Campanian  city,  with  its  towers 
And  temples  gleaming  through  dark  olive-bo  were 

Clear  in  the  golden  day  ; 
Joy  was  around  it  as  the  glowing  sky, 
And  crowds  had  fill'd  its  halls  of  revelry, 
And  all  the  sunny  air  was  music's  way. 


A  cloud  came  o'er  the  face 
Of  Italy's  rich  heaven  !  —  its  crystal  hlue 
Was  changed,  and  deepen'd  to  a  wrathful  hue 

Of  night,  o'ershadowing  space, 
As  with  the  wings  of  death  !  —  in  all  his  power 
Vesuvius  woke,  and  hurl'd  the  burning  shower, 
And  who  could  tell  the  buried  city's  place  ? 

Such  things  have  been  of  yore, 
In  the  gay  regions  where  the  citrons  blow, 
And  purple  summers  all  their  sleepy  glow 

On  the  grape-clusters  pour  ; 
And  where  the  palms  to  spicy  winds  are  waving 
Along  clear  seas  of  melting  sapphire,  laving, 
As  with  a  flow  of  light,  their  southern  shore. 

Turn  we  to  other  climes  !  — 
Far  in  the  Druid-Isle  a  feast  was  spread, 
'Midst  the  rock-altars  of  the  warrior  dead  : 

And  ancient  battle-rhymes 
Were  chanted  to  the  harp  ;  and  yellow  mead 
Went  flowing  round,  and  tales  of  martial  deed, 
And  lefty  soncrs  of  Britain's  eWor  time  ; 


(172) 

But,  ere  the  giant-fane 
Cast  us  broad  shadows  on  the  robe  of  even, 
Hush'd    were    the   bards,    and    in   the   face   of 

heaven, 

O;er  that  old  burial  plain 
Flash'd   the   keen  Saxon  dagger! — Blood  was 

streaming 
Where    '«ite    the    mead-cup    to    the   sun   was 

gleaming, 
And  Britain's   hearths  were  heap'd   that  night 

in  vain — 


For  they  return'd  no  more  ! 
They  that  went  forth   at   morn  with  reckless 

heart, 
In   that   fierce   banquet's   mirth   to   bear    their 

part  ; 

And,  on  the  rushy  floor, 

And  the  bright  spears  and  bucklers  of  the  walls, 
The  high  wood  fires  were  blazing  in  their  halls ; 
But  not  for  them — they  slept — their  feast  was 

o'er ! 

Fear  ye  the  festal  hour  ! 
Aye,  tremble  when  the  cup  of  joy  o'erflows  ! 
Tame    down   the    swelling    heart ! — the    bridal 

rose, 

And  the  rich  myrtle's  flower 
Have    veil'd    the    sword!  —  Red    wines    have 

sparkled  fast 

From  venom'd  goblets,  and  soft  breezes  pass'd, 
With  fatal  perfume,  through  the  revel's  bower 


(  173  ) 

Twine  the  young  glowing  wreath ! 
But  pour  not  all  your  spirit  in  the  song, 
Which  through  the  sky's  deep  azure  floats  along 

Like  summer's  quickening  breath  ! 
The  ground  is  hollow  in  the  path  of  mirth : 
Oh !  far  too  daring  seems  the  joy  of  earth, 
So  darkly  press'd  and  girdled  in  by  death ! 


THE  LAST  SONG  OF  SAPPHO. 

SOUND  on,  thou  dark  imslumbering  sea ! 

My  dirge  is  in  thy  moan  ; 
My  spirit  finds  response  in  thee, 
To  its  own  ceaseless  cry — "  Alone,  alone  !  " 

Yet  send  me  back  one  other  word, 

Ye  tones  that  never  cease ! 
Oh !  let  your  secret  caves  be  stirr'd, 
And  say,  dark  waters !  will  ye  give  me  peace 

Away  !  my  weary  soul  hath  sought 

In  vain  one  echoing  sigh, 
One  answer  to  consuming  thought 
In  human  hearts — and  will  the  wave  reply  ? 

Sound  on,  thou  dark  unslumbering  sea ! 

Sound  in  thy  scorn  and  pride  ! 
I  ask  not,  alien  world,  from  thee, 
What,  my  own  kindred  earth  hath  still  denied. 
15* 


(174) 

And  yet  I  loved  that  earth  so  well 

With  all  its  lovely  things  ! 
— Was  it  for  this  the  death  wind  fell 
On  my  rich  lyre,  and  quench'd  its  living  strings  ? 

— Let  them  lie  silent  at  my  feet ! 

Since  broken  even  as  they, 
The  heart  whose  music  made  them  sweet, 
Hath  pour'd  on  desert-sands  its  wealth  away 

Yet  glory's  light  hath  touch'd  my  name, 

The  laurel-wreath  is  mine — 
With  a  lone  heart,  a  weary  frame — 
O  restless  deep !  I  come  to  make  them  thine  ! 

Give  place  to  that  crown,  that  burning  crown, 

Place  in  thy  darkest  hold  ! 
Bury  my  anguish,  my  renown, 
With  hidden  wrecks,  lost  gems,  and  wasted  gold. 

Thou  sea-bird  on  the  billow's  crest, 

Thou  hast  thy  love,  thy  home  ; 
They  wait  thee  in  the  quiet  nest, 
And  I,  the  unsought,  unwatch'd-for — I  too  come  ! 

I,  with  this  wing'd  nature  fraught, 

These  visions  wildly  free, 
This  boundless  love,  this  fiery  thought — 
Alone  I  come — oh !  give  me  peace,  dark  sea' 


IVAN  THE  CZAR. 

HK  sat  in  silence  on  the  ground, 

The  old  and  haughty  Czar, 
Lonely,  though  princes  girt  him  round, 

And  leaders  of  the  war  : 
He  had  cast  his  Jewell 'd  sabre, 

That  many  a  field  had  won, 
To  the  earth  beside  his  youthful  dead — 

His  fair  and  first-born  son. 

With  a  robe  of  ermine  for  its  bed, 

Was  laid  that  form  of  clay, 
Where  the  light  a  stormy  sunset  shed, 

Through  the  rich  tent  made  way ; 
And  a  sad  and  solemn  beauty 

On  the  pallid  face  came  down, 
Which  the  Lord  of  nations  mutely  watch'd, 

In  the  dust,  with  his  renown. 

Low  tones,  at  last,  of  woe  and  fear 

From  his  full  bosom  broke — 
A  mournful  thing  it  was  to  hear 

How  then  the  proud  man  spoke  ! 
The  voice  that  through  the  combat 

Had  shouted  far  and  high, 
Came  forth  in  strange,  dull,  hollow  tones, 

Burden'd  with  agony. 


(176) 

;<  There  is  no  crimson  on  thy  cheek, 

And  on  thy  lip  no  breath  ; 
I  call  thee,  and  thou  dost  not  speak — 

They  tell  me  this  is  death ! 
And  fearful  things  are  whispering 

That  I  the  deed  have  done — 
For  the  honor  of  thy  father's  name, 

Look  up,  look  up,  my  son ! 


"  Well  might  I  know  death's  hue  and  mien, 

But  on  thine  aspect,  boy  ! 
What,  till  this  moment,  have  1  seen 

Save  pride  and  tameless  joy  ? 
Swiftest  thou  wert  to  battle, 

And  bravest  there  of  all — 
How  could  I  think  a  warrior's  frame 

Thus  like  a  flower  should  fall  ? 

"  I  will  not  bear  that  still  cold  look — 

Rise  up,  thou  fierce  and  free  ! 
Wake  as  the  storm  wakes  !  I  will  brook 

All,  save  this  calm,  from  thee  ! 
Lift  brightly  up,  and  proudly, 

Once  more  thy  kindred  eyes ! 
Hath  my  word  lost  its  power  on  earth  ? 

I  say  to  thee,  arise ! 

"  Didst  thou  not  know  I  loved  thee  well  ? 

Thou  didst  not  !  and  art  gone, 
In  bitterness  of  soul,  to  dwell 

Where  man  must  dwell  alone. 


(177) 

Come  back,  young  fiery  spirit ! . 

If  but  one  hour,  to  learn 
The  secrets  of  the  folded  heart 

That  seern'd  to  thee  so  stern. 


"  Thou  wert  the  first,  the  first,  fair  child, 

That  in  mine  arms  I  press'd : 
Thou  wert  the  bright  one,  that  hast  smiled 

Like  summer  on  rny  breast ! 
1  rear'd  thee  as  an  eagle, 

To  the  chase  thy  steps  I  led, 
I  bore  thee  on  my  battle-horse, 

I  look  upon  thee — dead  ! 

"  Lay  down  my  warlike  banners  here, 

Never  again  to  wave, 
And  bury  my  red  sword  and  spear, 

Chiefs  !  in  my  first-born's  grave  ' 
And  leave  me  ! — I  have  conquer'd, 

I  have  slain — my  work  is  done ! 
Whom  have  I  slain  ? — ye  answer  not— 

Thou  art  too  mute,  my  son  !  " 

And  thus  his  wild  lament  was  pour'd 

Through  the  dark  resounding  nigh., 
And  the  battle  knew  no  more  his  sword, 

Nor  the  foaming  steed  his  might. 
He  heard  strange  voices  moaning 

In  every  wind  that  sigh'd  ; 
From  the  searching  stars  of  heaven  he  shrank- 

Humbly  the  conqueror  died. 


(178) 


THE  DYING  IMPROVISATOTRE. 

THE  spirit  of  my  land, 
It  visits  me  once  more  ! — though  I  must  die 
Far  from  the  myrtles  which  thy  breeze  hath  fann'd 

My  own  bright  Italy  ! 

It  is,  it  is  thy  breath, 

Which  stirs  my  soul  e'en  yet,  as  wavering  flame 
Is  shaken  by  the  wind  ; — in  life  and  death 

Still  trembling,  yet  the  same  ! 

Oh  !  that  love's  quenchless  power 
Might  waft  my  voice  to  fill  thy  summer  sky, 
And  through  thy  groves  its  dying  music  shower 

Italy!  Italy! 

The  nightingale  is  there, 

The  sunbeam's  glow,  the  citron-flower's  perfume, 
The  south  wind's  whisper  in  the  scented  air — 

It  will  not  pierce  the  tomb  ! 

Never,  oh  !  never  more, 

On  my  Rome's  purple  heaven  mine  eye  shall  dwell 
Or  watch  the  bright  waves  melt  along  thy  shore — 

My  Italy  !  farewell ! 

Alas  ! — thy  hills  among, 
Had  1  but  left  a  memory  of  my  name, 
Of  love  and  grief  one  deep,  true,  fervent  song. 

Uiito  immortal  fame  ! 


(179) 

But  like  a  lute's  brief  tone, 
Like  a  rose-odor  on  the  breezes  cast, 
Like  a  swift  flush  of  dayspring,  seen  and  gone, 

So  hath  my  spirit  pass'd — 

Pouring  itself  away 
As  a  wild  bird  amidst  the  foliage  turns 
That  which  within  him  triumphs,  beats,  or  burns, 

Into  a  fleeting  lay  ; 

That  swells^  and  floats,  and  dies, 
Leaving  no  echo  to  the  summer  woods 
Of  the  rich  breathings  and  impassion'd  sighs 

Which  thrill'd  their  solitudes. 

Yet,  yet  remember  me  ! 

Friends  !  that  upon  its  murmurs  oft  have  hung, 
When  from  my  bosom,  joyously  and  free, 

The  fiery  fountain  sprung. 

Under  the  dark  rich  blue 
Of  midnight  heavens,  and  on  the  star-lit  sea, 
And  when  woods  kindle  into  Spring's  first  hue, 

Sweet  friends  !  remember  me  ! 

And  in  the  marble  halls, 

Where  life's  full  glow  the  dreams  of  beauty  wear, 
And  poet-thoughts  embodied  light  the  walls, 

Let  me  be  with  you  there  ! 

Fain  would  I  bind,  for  you, 
My  memory  with  all  glorious  things  to  dwell ; 
Fain  bid  all  lovely  sounds  my  name  renew — 

Sweet  friends  !  bright  land  !  farewell ! 


(180) 


THE  HOUR  OF  PRAYER. 

CHILD,  amidst  the  flowers  at  play, 
While  the  red  light  fades  away ; 
Mother,  with  thine  earnest  eye, 
Ever  following  silently  ; 
Father,  by  the  breeze  of  eve 
Call'd  thy  harvest  work  to  leave — 
Pray  :  ere  yet  the  dark  hours  be, 
Lift  the  heart  and  bend  the  knee ! 

Traveller,  in  the  stranger's  land, 
Far  from  thine  own  household  band 
Mourner,  haunted  by  the  tone 
Of  a  voice  from  this  world  gone  ; 
Captive,  in  whose  narrow  cell 
Sunshine  hath  not  leave  to  dwell  j 
Sailor,  on  the  darkening  sea ! 
Lift  the  heart  and  bend  the  knee ' 

Warrior,  that  from  battle  won 
Breathest  now  at  set  of  sun  ; 
Woman,  o'er  the  lowly  slain 
Weeping  on  his  burial-plain  ; 
Ye  that  triumph,  ye  that  sigh, 
Kindred  by  one  holy  tie, 
Heaven's  first  star  alike  ye  see — 
Lift  the  heart  and  bend  the  knee  ! 


f  181  ) 


THE  HEBREW  MOTHER. 

THE  rose  was  in  rich  bloom  on  Sharon's  plain, 
When  a  young  mother,  with  her  first-born,  thence 
Went  up  to  Zion ;  for  the  boy  was  vow'd 
Unto  the  temple  service  : — by  the  hand 
She  led  him,  and  her  silent  soul,  the  while, 
Oft  as  the  dewy  laughter  of  his  eye 
Met  her  sweet  serious  glance,  rejoiced  to  think 
That  aught  so  pure,  so  beautiful,  was  hers, 
To  bring  before  her  God.     So  pass'd  they  on 
O'er  Judah's  hills  ;  and  wheresoe'er  the  leaves 
Of  the  broad  sycamore  made  sounds  at  noon, 
Like  lulling  rain  drops,  or  the  olive  boughs, 
With  their  cool  dimness,  cross'd  the  sultry  blue 
Of  Syria's  heaven,  she  paused,  that  he  might  rest: 
Yet  from  her  own  meek  eyelids  chased  the  sleep 
That  weigh'd  their  dark  fringe  down,  to  sit  and 

watch 

The  crimson  deepening  o'er  his  cheek's  repose, 
As  at  a  red  flower's  heart.     And  where  a  fount 
Lay,  like  a  twilight  star,  'midst  palmy  shades 
Making  its  bank  green  gems  along  the  wild, 
There,  too.  she  linger'd,  from  the  diamond  wave 
Drawing  bright  water  for  his  rosy  lips, 
And  softly  parting  clusters  of  jet  curls 
To  bathe  his  brow.    At  last  the  fane  was  reached, 
The  earth's  one  sanctuary — and  rapture  hush'd 
Her  bosom,  as  before  her,  through  the  day 
16 


(182) 

It  rose,  a  mountain  of  white  marble,  steep'd 

Tn  light  hke  floating  gold.     But  when  that  hour 

Waned  to  the  farewell  moment,  when  the  boy 

Lifted,  through  rainbow-gleaming  tears,  his  eye 

Beseechingly  to  hers,  and  half  in  fear 

Tum'd  from  the  white-robed  priest,  and  round 

her  arm 

Clung  even  as  joy  clings — the  deep  spring-tide 
Of  nature  then  swell'd  high,  and  o'er  her  child 
Bending,  her  soul  broke  forth,  in  mingled  sounds 
Of  weeping  and  sad  song. — "Alas !  "  she  cried, — 

"Alas !  my  boy,  thy  gentle  grasp  is  on  me  ; 
The  bright  tears  quiver  in  thy  pleading  eyes  ; 

And  now  fond  thoughts  arise, 
And  silver  chords  again  to  earth  have  won  me ; 
And  like  a  vine  thou  claspest  my  full  heart — 

How  shall  I  hence  depart  ? 

"  How  the  lone  paths  retrace  where  thou  wert 

playing 
So  late  along  the  mountains,  at  my  side  ? 

And  I,  in  joyous  pride, 

By  every  place  of  flowers  my  course  delaying, 
Wore,  e'en  as  pearls,  the  lilies  round  thy  hair. 

Beholding  thee  so  fair  ! 

"And,  oh!  the  nome  whence  thy  bright  smile 

hath  parted, 

Will  it  not  seem  as  if  the  sunny  day 
Turn'd  from  its  door  away  ? 


(  183  ) 

While  through  its  chambers  wandering,  weary 

hearted, 
[  languish  for  thy  voice,  which  past  me  still 


Went  like  a  singing  rill  ? 


"  Under   the    palm    trees    thou    no   move    slmlt 

meet  me, 
When  from  the  fount  at  evening  I  return, 

Writh  the  full  water-urn  ; 
Nor  will   thy  sleep's  low   dove-like    breathings 

greet  me, 

As  'midst  the  silence  of  the  stars  I  wake. 
And  watch  for  thy  dear  sake. 

"  And  thou,  will  slumber's  dewy  cloud  fall  round 

thee, 
Without  thy  mother's  hand  to  smooth  thy  bed  ? 

Wilt  thou  not  vainly  spread 
Thine  arms,  when  darkness  as  a  veil  hath  wound 

thee, 

To  fold  my  neck,  and  lift  up,  in  thy  fear, 
A  cry  which  none  shall  hear  ? 

"What  have  I  said,  my  child! — Will  HE  not 

hear  thee, 
Who  the  young  ravens  heareth  from  their  ricst  ? 

Shall  He  not  guard  thy  rest, 
And,  in  the  hush  of  holy  midnight  near  thee, 
Breathe  o'er  thy  soul,  and  fill  thy  dreams  with 

joy? 
Thou  shalt  sleep  soft,  my  boy. 


1 184) 

"  I  give  thec  to  thy  God — the  God  that  gave 

thec, 
A  well-spring  of  deep  gladness,  to  my  heart ! 

And,  precious  as  thou  art, 
And  pure  as  dew  of  Hermon,   He  shall  have 

thee, 

My  own,  my  beautiful,  my  undefiled  ! 
And  thou  shalt  be  His  child. 

"  Therefore,    farewell  ! — I    go,    my   soul    may 

fail  me, 
As  the  hart  panteth  for  the  water  brooks, 

Yearning  for  thy  sweet  lookss 
But  thou,  my  first-born,  droop  not,  nor  bewail 

me  ; 

Thou  in  the  Shadow  of  the  Rock  shalt  dwell, 
The  Rock  of  Strength.— Farewell ! " 


THE  GRAVES  OF  A  HOUSEHOLD. 

THEY  grew  in  beauty,  side  by  side, 
They  fill'd  one  home  with  glee  ; — 

Their  graves  are  sever'd,  far  and  wide, 
By  mount,  and  stream,  and  sea. 

The  same  fond  mother  bent  at  night 
O'er  euch  fair  sleeping  brow  ; 

She  had  each  folded  flower  in  sight — 
Whore  are  those  dreamers  now  ? 


(185) 

One,  'midst  the  forest  of  the  west, 

By  a  dark  stream  is  laid — 
The  Indian  knows  his  place  of  rest, 

Far  in  the  cedar  shade. 

The  sea,  the  blue  lone  sea,  hath  one- 
He  lies  where  pearls  lie  deep  ; 

He  was  the  loved  of  all,  yet  none 
O'er  his  low  bed  may  weep. 

One  sleeps  where  southern  vines  are  drest, 

Above  the  noble  slain  ; 
He  wrapt  his  colors  round  his  breast 

On  a  blood-red  field  of  Spain. 

And  one — o'er  her  the  myrtle  showers 
Its  leaves,  by  soft  winds  fann'd  ; 

She  faded  'midst  Italian  flowers — 
The  la.--t  of  that  bright  band. 

And  parted  thus  they  rest,  who  play'd 
Beneath  the  same  green  tree  ; 

Whose  voices  mingled  as  they  pray'd 
Around  one  parent  knee  ! 

They  that  with  smiles  lit  up  the  hall, 
And  cheered  with  song  the  hearth- 
Alas  !  for  love,  if  thou  wert  all, 
And  nought  beyond,  O  earth  ' 


16 


(186) 


TASSO  AND  HIS  SISTER. 

SHE  sat,  where  on  each  wind  that  sigh'd, 

The  citron's  breath  went  by, 
While  the  red  gold  of  eventide~ 

Burn'd  in  the  Italian  sky. 
Her  bower  was  one  where  daylight's  close 

Full  of  sweet  laughter  found, 
As  thence  the  voice  of  childhood  rose 

To  the  high  vineyards  round. 

But  still  and  thoughtful,  at  her  knee, 

Her  children  stood  that  hour, 
Their  bursts  of  song  and  dancing  glee 

Hush'd  as  by  words  of  power. 
With  bright  fix'd  wondering  eyes,  that  gazed 

Up  to  their  mother's  face. 
With  brows  through  parted  ringlets  raised. 

They  stood  in  silent  grace. 

While  she — yet  something  o'er  her  look 

Of  mournfulness  was  spread — 
Forth  from  a  poet's  magic  book 

The  glorious  numbers  read  ; 
The  proud  undying  lay,  which  pour'd 

Its  light  on  evil  years  ; 
His  of  the  gifted  pen  and  sword, 

The  triumph — and  the  tears. 


(187) 

She  read  of  fair  Erminia's  flight, 

Which  Venice  once  might  hear 
Sung  on  her  glittering  seas  at  night 

By  many  a  gondolier  ; 
Of  him  she  read,  who  broke  the  charm 

That  wrapt  the  myrtle  grove  ; 
Of  Godfrey's  deeds,  of  Tancred's  arm, 

That  slew  his  Paynim  love. 


Young  cheeks  around  that  bright  page  glow'd, 

Young  holy  hearts  were  stirr'd  ; 
And  the  meek  tears  of  woman  flow'd 

Fast  o'er  each  burning  word. 
And  sounds  of  breeze,  and  fount,  and  leaf, 

Came  sweet,  each  pause  between  ; 
When  a  strange  voice  of  sudden  grief 

Burst  on  the  gentle  scene. 

The  mother  turn'd — a  wayworn  man, 

In  pilgrim  garb,  stood  nigh, 
Of  stately  mien,  yet  wild  and  wan, 

Of  proud  yet  mournful  eye. 
But  drops  which  would  not  stay  for  prido 

From  that  dark  eye  gush'd  free, 
As  pressing  his  pale  brow,  he  cried 

"  Forgotten  !  e'en  by  thee  ! 

"  Am  I  so  changed  ? — and  yet  we  too 
Oft  hand  in  hand  have  play'd  ; — 

This  brow  hath  been  all  bathed  in  dew 
From  wreaths  which  thou  hast  made  : 


(188) 

We  have  knelt  down  and  said  one  prayer, 

And  sung  one  vesper  strain  ; 
My  soul  is  dim  with  clouds  of  care — 

Tell  me  those  words  again  ! 


"  Life  hath  been  heavy  on  my  head, 

I  come  a  stricken  deer, 
Bearing  the  heart,  'midst  crowds  that  bled. 

To  bleed  in  stillness  here." 
She  gazed,  till  thoughts  that  long  had  slept 

Shook  all  her  thrilling  frame — 
She  fell  upon  his  neck  and  wept, 

Murmuring  her  brother's  name. 

Her  brother's  name  ! — and  who  was  he, 

The  weary  one,  th'  unknown, 
That  came,  the  bitter  world  to  flee, 

A  stranger  to  his  own  ? — 
He  was  the  bard  of  gift  divine 

To  sway  the  souls  of  men  ; 
He  of  the  song  for  Salem's  shrine, 

He  of  the  sword  and  pen ! 


ENGLAND'S  DEAD. 

Sox  of  the  ocean  isle  ! 
Where  sleep  your  mighty  dead  ? 
Show  me  what  high  and  stately  pile 
Is  rear'd  o'er  Glory's  bed. 


Go,  stranger !  track  the  deep 
Free,  free  the  white  sail  spread  ! 
Wave  may  not  foam,  nor  wild  wind  sweep, 
Where  rest  not  England's  dead. 

On  Egypt's  burning  plains, 
By  the  pyramid  o'ersway'd, 
With  fearful  power  the  noonday  reigns, 
And  the  palm  trees  yield  no  shade. 

But  let  the  angry  sun 
From  heaven  look  fiercely  red, 
Unfelt  by  those  whose  task  is  done ! — 
There  slumber  England's  dead. 

The  hurricane  hath  might 
Along  the  Indian  shore, 
And  far  by  Ganges'  banks  at  night, 
Is  heard  the  tiger's  roar. 

But  let  the  sound  roll  on  ! 
It  hath  no  tone  of  dread, 
For  those  that  from  their  toils  are  gone ,— , 
There  slumber  England's  dead. 

Loud  rush  the  torrent-floods 

The  western  wilds  among, 

And  free,  in  green  Columbia's  woods 

The  hunter's  bow  is  strung. 

But  let  the  floods  rush  on  ! 
Let  the  arrow's  flight  be  sped  ! 
Why  should  they  reck  whose  task  is  done  ?— • 
There  slumbor  England's  dead  ! 


(190) 

The  mountain-storms  rise  high 
In  the  snowy  Pyrenees, 
And  toss  the  pine  boughs  through  the  sky, 
Like  rose  leaves  on  the  breeze. 

But  let  the  storm  rage  on ! 
Let  the  fresh  wreaths  be  shed ! 
For  the  Roncesvalles'  field  is  won, — 
There  slumber  England's  dead. 

On  the  frozen  deeps  repose 
'Tis  a  dark  and  dreadful  hour, 
When  round  the  ship  the  ice-fields  close, 
And  the  northern  night-clouds  lower. 

But  let  the  ice  drift  on ! 
Let  the  cold-blue  desert  spread  ! 
Their  course  with  mast  and  flag  is  done, — 
Even  there  sleeps  England's  dead. 

The  warlike  of  the  isles, 
The  men  of  field  and  wave  ! 
tAre  not  the  rocks  their  funeral  piles, 
The  seas  and  shores  their  grave  ! 

Go,  stranger  !  track  the  deep, 
Free,  free  the  white  sail  spread  ! 
Wave  may  not  foam,  nor  wild  wind  sweep, 
Where  rest  not  England's  dead. 


(191) 


THE    TRAVELLER    AT    THE    SOURCE 
OF    THE   NILE. 

IN  sunset's  light  o'er  Afric  thrown, 

A  wanderer  proudly  stood 
Beside  the  well-spring,  deep  and  lone, 

Of  Egypt's  awful  flood  ; 
The  cradle  of  that  mighty  birth, 
So  long  a  hidden  thing  to  earth. 

He  heard  its  life's  first  murmuring  sound, 

A  low,  mysterious  tone  ; 
A  music  sought,  but  never  found 

By  kings  and  warriors  gone  ; 
He  listen'd — and  his  heart  beat  high — 
That  was  the  song  of  victory ! 

The  rapture  of  a  conqueror's  mood 

Rush'd  burning  through  his  frame, 

The  depths  of  that  green  solitude 
Its  torrents  could  not  tame, 

Though  stillness  lay,  with  eve's  last  smile, 

Round  those  calm  fountains  of  the  Nile, 

Night  came  with  stars  ; — across  his  soul, 
There  swept  a  sudden  change, 

E'en  at  the  pilgrim's  glorious  goal, 
A  shadow  dark  and  strange, 

Breathed  forth  the  thought,  so  swift  to  fall 

O'er  triumph's  hour — And  is  this  all  ? 


(192) 

No  more  than  this ! — what  seem'd  it  now 
First  by  that  spring  to  stand  ? 

A  thousand  streams  of  lovelier  flow 
Bathed  his  own  mountain  land ! 

Whence,  far  o'er  waste  and  ocean  track, 

Their  wild  sweet  voices  call'd  him  back. 

They  call'd  him  back  to  many  a  glade, 
His  childhood's  haunt  of  play, 

Where  brightly  through  the  beechen  shade 
Their  waters  glanced  away  ; 

They  call'd  him,  with  their  sounding  waves, 

Back  to  his  father's  hills  and  graves. 

But,  darkly  mingling  with  the  thought 

Of  each  familiar  scene, 
Rose  up  a  fearful  vision,  fraught 

With  all  that  lay  between, — 
The  Arab's  lance,  the  desert's  gloom, 
The  whirling  sands,  the  red  simoon  ! 

Where  was  the  glow  of  power  and  pride  t 

The  spirit  born  to  roam  ? 
His  weary  heart  within  him  died 

With  yearnings  for  his  home  ; 
All  vainly  struggling  to  repress 
That  gush  of  painful  tenderness. 

He  wept — the  stars  of  Afric's  heaven 

Beheld  his  bursting  tears, 
E'en  on  that  spot  where  fate  had  given 

The  meed  of  toiling  years. 
O  happiness  !  how  far  we  flee 
Thine  own  sweet  pa'hs  in  search  of  thee  ! 
17 


(193) 


HYMN  OF  THE  TRAVELLER'S  HOUSE- 
HOLD  ON  HIS  RETURN. 

IN    THE    OLDEN    TIME. 

JOY  !  the  lost  one  is  restored  ! 
Sunshine  comes  to  hearth  and  board, 
From  the  far-off  countries  old 
Of  the  diamond  and  red  gold  ; 
From  the  dusky  archer  bands, 
Roamers  of  the  fiery  sands  ; 
From  the  desert  winds,  whose  breath 
Smites  with  sudden  silent  death  ; 
He  hath  reach'd  his  home  again, 

Where  we  sing 
In  thy  praise  a  fervent  strain, 

God  our  King  ! 

Mightiest !  unto  thee  he  turn'd, 
When  the  noonday  fiercest  burn'd  ; 
When  the  fountain  springs  were  far, 
And  the  sounds  of  Arab  war 
Swell'd  upon  the  sultry  blast, 
And  the  sandy  columns  past, 
Unto  Thee  he  cried !  and  Thou, 
Merciful !  didst  hear  his  vow  ! 
Therefore,  unto  thee  again 

Joy  shall  sing, 
Many  a  sweet  and  thankful  strain, 

God  our  King ! 


(194) 

Thou  wert  with  him  on  the  main, 
And  the  snowy  mountain-chain, 
And  the  rivers  dark  and  wide, 
Which  through  Indian  forests  glide, 
Thou  didst  guard  him  from  the  wrath 
Of  the  lion  in  his  path, 
And  the  arrows  on  the  breeze, 
And  the  drooping  poison  trees ; 
Therefore,  from  household  train 

Oft  shall  spring 
Unto  thee  a  blessing  strain, 

God  our  King ! 

Thou  to  his  lone  watching  wife 
Hast  brought  back  the  light  of  life  ! 
Thou  hast  spared  his  loving  child 
Home  to  greet  him  from  the  wild. 
Though  the  suns  of  eastern  skies 
On  his  cheek  have  set  their  dyes, 
Though  long  toils  and  sleepless  cares 
On  his  brow  have  blanch'd  the  hairs, 
Yet  the  night  of  fear  is  flown, 
He  is  living,  and  our  own  ! — 
Brethren  !  spread  his  festal  board, 
Hang  his  mantle  on  his  sword, . 
With  the  armor  on  the  wall, 
While  this  long,  long  silent  hall 
Joyfully  doth  hear  again 

Voice  and  string 
Swell  to  Thee  the  exulting  strain 

God  our  King  ! 


(195) 


THE  PARTING  OF  SUMMER. 

THOU'RT  bearing  hence  thy  roses, 

Glad  summer,  fare  thee  well ! 
Thou'rt  singing  thy  last  melodies 

In  every  wood  and  dell. 

But  ere  the  golden  sunset 

Of  thy  latest  lingering  day, 
Oh  !  tell  me,  o'er  this  chequered  earth, 

How  hast  thou  pass'd  away  ? 

Brightly,  sweet  Summer  !  brightly 

Thine  hours  have  floated  by, 
To  the  joyous  birds  of  the  woodland  bouglis, 

The  rangers  of  the  sky. 

And  brightly  in  the  forests 

To  the  wild  deer  wandering  free  ; 

And  brightly  'midst  the  garden  flowers 
Is  the  happy  murmuring  bee  : 

But  how  to  human  bosoms, 

With  all  their  hopes  and  fears. 
And  thoughts  that  make  them  eagle-wings, 

To  pierce  the  unborn  years  ? 

Sweet  Summer  !  to  the  captive 

Thou  hast  flown  in  burning  dreams 

Of  the  woods,  with  all  their  whispering  leaves, 
And  the  blue  rejoicing  streams  ; — 


(196) 

To  the  wasted  and  the  weary 
On  the  bed  of  sickness  bound, 

In  swift  delirious  fantasies, 

That  changed  with  every  sound  ; — 

To  the  sailor  on  the  billows, 

In  longings  wild  and  vain, 
For  the  gushing  founts  and  breezy  hills, 

And  the  homes  of  earth  again  ! 

And  unto  me,  glad  Summer  ! 

How  hast  thou  flown  to  me  ? 
My  chainless  footstep  nought  hath  kept 

From  thy  haunts  of  song  and  glee. 

Thou  hast  flown  in  wayward  visions, 

In  memories  of  the  dead — 
In  shadows  from  a  troubled  heart, 

O'er  thy  sunny  pathway  shed : 

In  brief  and  sudden  strivings 

To  fling  a  weight  aside — 
'Midst  these  thy  melodies  have  ceased, 

And  all  thy  roses  died. 

But  oh  !  thou  gentle  Summer  ! 

If  I  greet  thy  flowers  once  more, 
Bring  me  again  the  buoyancy 

Wherewith  my  soul  should  soar  ! 

Give  me  to  hail  thy  sunshine, 

With  song  and  spirit  free  ; 
Or  in  a  purer  air  than  this 

May  that  next  meeting  be  ! 


(197) 


HYMN   OF    THE   VAUDOIS  MOUNTAIN- 
EERS  IN  TIMES  OF  PERSECUTION. 

FOR  the  strength  of  the  hills  we  bless  thee, 

Our  God,  our  fathers'  God  ! 
Thou  hast  made  thy  children  mighty, 

By  the  touch  of  the  mountain  sod. 
Thou  hast  fix'd  our  ark  of  refuge, 

Where  the  spoiler's  foot  ne'er  trod ; 
For  the  strength  of  the  hills  we  bless  thee, 

Our  God,  our  fathers'  God  ! 

We  are  watchers  of  a  beacon 

Whose  light  must  never  die  ; 
We  are  guardians  of  an  altar 

'Midst  the  silence  of  the  sky  ; 
The  rocks  yield  founts  of  courage, 

Struck  forth  as  by  thy  rod  ; 
For  the  strength  of  the  hills  we  bless  thee, 

Our  God,  our  fathers'  God ! 

For  the  dark  resounding  caverns, 

Where  thy  still,  small  voice  is  heard  ; 
For  the  strong  pines  of  the  forest, 

That  by  thy  breath  are  stirr'd  ; 
For  the  storms  on  whose  free  pinions 

Thy  spirit  walks  abroad  ; 
For  the  strength  of  the  hills  we  bless  thee, 

Our  God,  our  fathers'  God  ! 
17* 


(198) 

The  royal  eagle  darteth 

On  his  quarry  from  the  heights, 
And  the  stag  that  knows  no  master, 

Seeks  there  his  wild  delights  ; 
But  we,  for  thy  communion, 

Have  sought  the  mountain  sod, 
For  the  strength  of  the  hills  we  bless  thee, 

Our  God,  our  fathers'  God  ! 

The  banner  of  the  chieftain, 

Far,  far  below  us  waves  ; 
The  war-horse  of  the  spearman 

Cannot  reach  our  lofty  caves  : 
Thy  dark  clouds  wrap  the  threshold 

Of  freedom's  last  abode  ; 
For  the  strength  of  the  hills  we  bless  thee, 

Our  God,  our  fathers'  God  ! 

For  the  shadow  of  thy  presence, 

Round  our  camp  of  rock  outspread  ; 
For  the  stern  denies  of  battle, 

Bearing  record  of  our  dead  ; 
For  the  snows  and  for  the  torrents, 

For  the  free  heart's  burial  sod  ; 
For  the  strength  of  the  hills  we  bless  thee. 

Our  God,  our  fathers'  God ! 


I  199) 


THE  BOON  OF  MEMORY. 

I  co,  I  go  ! — and  must  mine  image  fade    [play'd, 
From  the    green  spots  wherein  my  childhood 

By  my  own  streams  ? 

Must  my  life  part  from  each  familiar  place, 
As  a  bird's  song,  that  leaves  the  woods  no  trace 

Of  its  lone  themes  ? 

Will  the  friend  pass  my  dwelling,  and  forget 
The  welcomes  there,  the  hours  when  we  have  met 

In  grief  or  glee  ? 

All  the  sweet  counsel,  the  communion  high, 
The  kindly  words  of  trust  in  days  gone  by, 

Pour'd  full  and  free  ? 

A  boon,  a  talisman,  O  Memory  !  give, 

To  shrine  my  name  in  hearts  where  I  would  liv« 

For  ever  more  ! 

Bid  the  wind  speak  of  me  where  I  have  dwelt, 
Bid  the  stream's  voice,  of  all  my  soul  hath  felt, 

A  thought  restore  ! 

In  the  rich  rose,  whose  bloom  I  loved  so  well, 
In  the  dim  brooding  violet  of  the  dell, 

Sat  deep  that  thought ! 
And  let  the  sunset's  melancholy  glow, 
And  let  the  Spring's  first  whisper,  faint  and  low 

With  me  be  fraught  ! 


(200) 

And  memory  answer'd  me  : — "  Wild  wish  and 

vain  ! 
I  have  no  hues  the  loveliest  to  detain 

In  the  heart's  core. 

The  place  they  held  in  bosoms  all  their  own, 
Soon   with    new  shadows    fill'd,    new   flowers 

o'ergrown, 
Is  theirs  no  more." 

Hast    thou   such   power,    O   Love  ? — and   love 

replied, 
"It  is  not  mine !     Pour  out  thy  soul's  full  tide 

Of  hope  and  trust, 

Prayer,  tear,  devotedness,  that  boon  to  gain — 
'Tis  but  to  write  with  the  heart's  fiery  rain, 

Wild  words  on  dust !  " 

Song,  is  the  gift  with  thee  ? — I  ask  a  lay, 
Soft,  fervent,  deep,  that  will  not  pass  away 

From  the  still  breast ; 

Fill'd  with  a  tone — oh  !  not  for  deathless  fame, 
But  a  sweet  haunting  murmur  of  my  name, 

Where  it  would  rest. 

And  Song  made  answer — "  It  is  not  in  me,     [b* 
Though  call'd  immortal ;  though  my  gifts  may 

All  but  divine. 

A  place  of  lonely  brightness  I  can  give  :  [live— 
A  changeless  one,  where  thou  with  Love  wouldst 

This  is  not  mine  !  " 

Death,  Death  !  wilt  thou  the  restless  wish  fulfil  ? 
And  Death,   the   Strong  One,  spoke : — "  I  can 
but  still 


(201) 

Each  vain  regret. 

What  if  forgiven  ? — All  thy  soul  would  crave, 
Thou  too,  within  the  mantle  of  the  grave, 

Wilt  soon  forget." 

Then  did  my  heart  in  lone  faint  sadness  die, 
As  from  all  nature's  voices  one  reply, 

But  one — was  given. 

"  Earth  has  no  heart,  fond  dreamer !  with  a  tone 
To  send  thee  back  the  spirit  of  thine  own- — 

Seek  it  in  Heaven." 


KINDRED  HEARTS. 

OH  !  ask  not,  hope  thou  not  too  much 

Of  sympathy  below : 
Few  are  the  hearts  whence  one  same  touch 

Bids  the  sweet  fountains  flow : 
Few — and  by  still  conflicting  powers 

Forbidden  here  to  meet — 
Such  ties  would  make  this  life  of  ours 

Too  fair  for  aught  so  fleet. 

It  may  be,  that  thy  brother's  eye 

Sees  not  as  thine,  which  turns 
In  such  deep  reverence  to  the  sky 

Where  the  rich  sunset  burns : 
It  may  be,  that  the  breath  of  spring, 

Born  amidst  violets  lone, 
A  rapture  o'er  thy  soul  can  bring — 

A  dream,  to  him  unknown. 


(202) 

The  tune  that  speaks  of  other  times — 

A  sorrowful  delight ! 
The  melody  of  distant  chimes, 

The  sound  of  waves  by  night. 
The  wind  that,  with  so  many  a  tone, 

Some  chord  within  can  thrill, — 
These  may  have  language  all  thine  own, 

To  him  a  mystery  still. 

Yet  scorn  thou  not,  for  this,  the  true 

And  steadfast  love  of  years  ; 
The  kindly,  that  from  childhood  grew, 

The  faithful  to  thy  tears  ! 
If  there  be  one  that  o'er  the  dead 

Hath  in  thy  grief  borne  part, 
And  watch'd  through  sickness  by  thy  bed. 

Call  his  a  kindred  heart ! 

But  for  those  bonds  all  perfect  made, 

Wherein  bright  spirits  blend, 
Like  sister  flowers  of  one  sweet  shade, 

With  the  same  breeze  that  bend, 
For  that  full  bliss  of  thought  allied, 

Never  to  mortals  given, — 
Oh  !  lay  thy  lovely  dreams  aside. 

Or  lift  them  unto  Heaven 


(203) 


THE  PARTHENON. 

FAIR  Parthenon  !  yet  still  must  Fancy  weep 
For  thee,  thou  work  of  nobler  spirits  flown. 
Bright,  as  of  old,  the  sunbeams  o'er  thee  sleep 
In  all  their  beauty  still — and  thine  is  gone  ! 
Empires  have  sunk  since  thou  wert  first  revered, 
And  varying  rites  have  sanctified  thy  shrine. 
The  dust  is  round  thee  of  the  race  that  reared 
Thy  walls ;  and  thou — their  fate  must   soon 

be  thine ! 

But  when  shall  earth  again  exult  to  see 
Visions  divine  like  theirs  renew'd  in  aught  like 

thee  ? 

Lone  are  thy  pillars  now — each  passing  gale 
Sighs   o'er   them   as  a  spirit's  voice,   which 

moan'd 

That  loneliness,  and  told  the  plaintive  tale 
Of  the  bright  synod  once  above  them  throned. 
Mourn,  graceful  ruin  !  on  thy  sacred  hill, 
Thy   gods,    thy   rites,    a   kindred   fate    havo 

shared  : 

Yet  art  thou  honor'd  in  each  fragment  still 
That  wasting  years  and  barbarous  hands  had 

spared  ; 

Each  hallow'd  stone,  from  rapine's  fury  borne, 
Shall  wake  bright  dreams  of  thee  in  ages  yet 

unborn. 


(204) 

Yes ;    in    those   fragments,   though   by  time 

defaced 

And  rude  insensate  conquerors,  yet  remains 
All  that  may  charm  the  enlightened  eye  of 

taste, 

On  shores  where  still  inspiring  freedom  reigns. 
As  vital  fragrance  breathes  from  every  part 
Of  the  crush'd  myrtle,  or  the  bruised  rose, 
E'en  thus  the  essential  energy  of  art 
There  in  each  wreck  imperishably  glows  ! 
The  soul  of  Athens  lives  in  every  line, 
Pervading  brightly  still  the  ruins  of  her  shrine. 

Mark — on  the  storied  frieze  the  graceful  train, 
The  holy  festival's  triumphal  throng, 
In  fair  procession,  to  Minerva's  fane, 
With  many  a  sacred  symbol,  move  along. 
There  every  shade  of  bright  existence  trace, 
The  fire  of  youth,  the  dignity  of  age ; 
The  matron's  calm  austerity  of  grace, 
The  ardent  warrior,  the  benignant  sage ; 
The   nymph's    light    symmetry,    the   chiefs 

proud  mien  ; 
Each  ray  of  beauty  caught  and  mingled  in  tho 

scene. 

Art  unobtrusive  there  ennobles  form, 
Each  pure  chaste  outline  exquisitely  flows  ; 
» There  e'en  the  steed,  with   bold   expression 

warm, 

Is  cloth'd  with  majesty,  with  being  glows. 
One  mighty  mind  hath  harmonized  the  whole  ; 


(205) 

Those  varied  groups  the  same  bright  impress 

bear  ; 

One  beam  an  essence  of  exalting  soul 
Lives  in  the  grand,  the  delicate,  the  fair  ; 
And  well  that  pageant  of  the  glorious  dead 
Blends  us  with  nobler  days,  and  loftier  spirits  fled. 

O,  conquering  Genius !  that  couldst  thus  detain 
The  subtle  graces,  fading  as  they  rise, 
Eternalize  expression's  fleeting  reign, 
Arrest  warm  life  in  all  its  energies, 
And  fix  them  on  the  stone — thy  glorious  lot 
Might  wake  ambition's  envy,  and  create 
Powers  half  divine  :  while  nations  are  forgot, 
A  thought,  a  dream  of  thine  hath  vanquish'd 

fate! 
And  when  thy  hand  first  gave  its  wonders 

birth, 
The  realms  that  hail  them  now  scarce  claim'd  a 

name  on  earth. 

Wert  thou  some  spirit  of  a  purer  sphere 
But  once  beheld,  and  never  to  return  ? 
No — we  may  hail  again  thy  bright  career. 
Again  on  earth  a  kindred  fire  shall  burn  ! 
Though  thy  least  relics,  e'en  in  ruin,  bear 
A   stamp   of  heaven,  that   ne'er   hath   been 

renew'd — 

A  light  inherent — let  not  man  despair: 
Still  be  hope  ardent,  patience  unsubdued ; 
For  still  is  nature  fair,  and  thought  divine, 
A.nd  art  hath  won  a  world  in  models  pure  as  thine. 
18 


(206) 


SISTER !  SINCE  I  MET  THEE  LAST. 

SISTER  !  since  1  met  thee  last, 
O'er  thy  brow  a  change  hath  past, 
In  the  softness  of  thine  eyes, 
Deep  and  still  a  shadow  lies ; 
From  thy  voice  there  thrills  a  tone, 
Never  to  thy  childhood  known ; 
Through  thy  soul  a  storm  hath  moved, 
— Gentle  sister,  thou  hast  loved  ! 

Yes  !  thy  varying  cheek  hath  caught 
Hues  too  bright  from  troubled  thought ; 
Far  along  the  wandering  stream, 
Thou  art  followed  by  a  dream  : 
In  the  woods  and  valleys  lone 
Music  haunts  thee,  not  thine  own  : 
Wherefore  fall  thy  tears  like  rain  ? 
— Sister,  thou  hast  loved  in  vain  ! 

Tell,  me  not  the  tale,  my  flower ! 
On  my  bosom  pour  that  shower  ! 
Tell  me  not  of  kind  thoughts  wasted  ; 
Tell  me  not  of  young  hopes  blasted  ; 
Wring  not  forth  one  burning  word, 
Let  thy  heart  no  more  be  stirr'd ! 
Home  alone  can  give  thee  rest. 
— Weep,  sweet  sister,  on  my  breast ! 


(207) 


Two  solemn  Voices,  in  a  funeral  strain, 

Met  as  rich  sunbeams  and  dark  bursts  of  rain 

Meet  in  the  sky  : 
"  Thou   art   gone   hence  !  "    one   sang  ;    "  Oui 

light  is  flown, 
Our  beautiful,  that  seem'd  too  much  our  own 

Ever  to  die  ! 

"  Thou  art  gone  hence  ! — our  joyous  hills  among 
Never  again  to  pour  thy  soul  in  song, 

When  spring-flowers  rise ! 
Never  the  friend's  familiar  step  to  meet 
With  loving  laughter,  and  the  welcome  sweet 

Of  thy  glad  eyes." 

"  Thou  art  gone  home,  gone  home ! "  then,  high 

and  clear. 
Warbled  that  other  "Voice  :  "  Thou  hast  no  tear 

Again  to  shed. 

Never  to  fold  the  robe  o'er  secret  pain, 
Never,  weigh'd  down  by  Memory's  clouds,  again 

To  bow  thy  head. 

"  Thou  art  gone  home !  oh !  early  crown'd  and 

blest ! 

Where  could  the  love  of  that  deep  heart  find  rest 
With  aught  below? 


( 208  ) 

Thou  must  have  seen  rich  dream  by  dream  decay, 
All  the  bright  rose  lei  ves  drop  from  life  away — 
Thrice  bless'd  to  go  !  " 

Yet  sigh'd  again  that  breeze-like  Voice  of  grief — 
"  Thou  art  gone  hence  !  alas !  that  aught  so  brief, 

So  loved  should  be  ; 
Thou  tak'st  our  summer  hence  ! — the  flower,  thn 

tone 
The  music  of  our  being,  all  in  one, 

Depart  with  thee ! 

"  Fair  form,  young  spirit,  morning  vision  fled ! 
Canst  thou  be  of  the  dead,  the  awful  dead  ? 

The  dark  unknown  ? 

Yes !  to  the  dwelling  where  no  footsteps  fall. 
Never  again  to  light  up  hearth  or  hall, 

Thy  smile  is  gone  !  " 

"  Home,  home  !  "  once  more  the  exulting  Voice 

arose : 
"  Thou  art  gone  home ! — from  that  divine  repose 

Never  to  roam  ! 

Never  to  say  farewell,  to  weep  in  vain, 
To  read  of  change,  in  eyes  beloved,  again — 

Thou  art  gone  home ! 

"  By  the  bright  waters  now  thy  lot  is  cast — 
Joy  for  thee,  happy  friend !  thy  bark  hath  past 

The  rough  sea's  foam ! 

Now  the  long  yearnings  of  thy  soul  are  still'd, 
Home !  home !  thy  peace  is  won,  thy  heart  is  fill'd. 

Thou  art  gone  home  !  " 


209) 


THE  IMAGE  IN  LAYA.* 

THOU  thing  of  years  departed ! 

What  ages  have  gone  by, 
Since  here  the  mournful  seal  was  set 

By  love  and  agony  ? 

Temple  and  tower  have  moulder'd, 
Empires  from  earth  have  pass'd, 

And  woman's  heart  hath  left  a  trace 
Those  glories  to  outlast ! 

And  childhood's  fragile  image, 

Thus  fearfully  enshrined, 
Survives  the  proud  memorials  rear'd 

By  conquerors  of  mankind. 

Babe  !  wert  thou  brightly  slumbering 
Upon  thy  mother's  breast, 

When  suddenly  the  fiery  tomb 
Shut  round  each  gentle  guest? 

A  strange,  dark  fate  o'ertook  you; 

Fair  babe  and  loving  heart ! 
One  moment  of  a  thousand  pangs — 

Yet  better  than  to  part ! 


*  The  impression  of  a  woman's  form,  with  an  infant  clasped  U 
the  bosom,  found  at  the  uncovering  of  Herculaneum. 

18* 


(210) 

Haply  of  that  fond  bosom 

On  ashes  here  impress'd, 
Thou  wert  the  only  treasure,  child ! 

Whereon  a  hope  might  rest. 

Perchance  all  vainly  lavish'd 

Its  other  love  had  been, 
And  where  it  trusted,  naught  remain'd 

But  thorns  on  which  to  lean. 

Far  better,  then,  to  perish, 

Thy  form  within  its  clasp, 
Than  live  and  lose  thee,  precious  one ' 

From  that  impassion'd  grasp. 

Oh  !  I  could  pass  all  relics 

Left  by  the  pomps  of  old, 
To  gaze  on  this  rude  monument 

Cast  in  affection's  mould. 

Love,  human  love  !  what  art  thou  t 

Thy  print  upon  the  dust 
Outlives  the  cities  of  renown 

Wherein  the  mighty  trust ! 

Iminortal,  oh !  immortal 

Thou  art,  whose  earthly  glow 

Hath  given  these  ashes  holiness — 
It  must,  it  must  be  so  ! 


THE  SUMMER'S  CALL. 

COME  away  !  the  sunny  hours 
Woo  tliee  far  to  founts  and  bowers ! 
O'er  the  very  waters  now, 
In  their  play, 

Flowers  are  shedding  beauty's  glow- 
Come  away  ! 

Where  the  lily's  tender  gleam 
Quivers  on  the  glancing  stream — 
Come  away ! 

And  the  air  is  filled  with  sound, 
Soft,  and  sultry,  and  profound  ; 
Murmurs  through  the  shadowy  grass 

Lightly  stray  ; 
Faint  winds  whisper  as  they  pass — 

Come  away ; 

Where  the  bee's  deep  music  swells 
From  the  trembling  foxglove  bells- 
Come  away ! 

In  the  skies  the  sapphire  blue 
Now  hath  won  its  richest  hue  ; 
In  the  woods  the  breath  of  song 

Night  and  day 
Floats  with  leafy  scents  along — 

Come  away  ! 

Where  the  boughs  with  dewy  gloom 
Darken  each  thick  bed  of  bloom 

Come  away ! 


(212) 

In  the  deep  heart  of  the  rose 
Now  the  crimson  love-hue  glows  ; 
Now  the  glow-worm's  lamp  by  night 

Sheds  a  ray 
Dreamy,  starry,  greenly  bright — 

Come  away ! 

Where  the  fair  cup-moss  lies, 
With  the  wild-wood  strawberries, 

Come  away ! 

Now  each  tree  by  summer  crown'd, 
Sheds  its  own  rich  twilight  round  ; 
Glancing  there  from  sun  to  shade, 

Bright  wings  play; 
There  the  deer  its  couch  hath  made — 

Come  away  ! 

Where  the  smooth  leaves  of  the  lime 
Glisten  in  their  honey-time — 

Come  away — away ! 


HE  NEVER  SMILED  AGAIN. 

THE  bark  that  held  a  prince  went  down, 

The  sweeping  waves  roll'd  on  ; 
And  what  was  England's  glorious  crown 

To  him  that  wept  a  son  ? 
He  lived — for  life  may  long  be  borne 

Ere  sorrow  break  its  chain  ; 
Why  comes  not  death  for  those  who  mourn  ?- 

He  never  smiled  again  ! 


(213) 

There  stood  proud  forms  around  his  thione, 

The  stately  and  the  brave  ; 
But  which  could  fill  the  place  of  one, 

That  one  beneath  the  wave  ? 
Refore  him  pass'd  the  young  and  fair, 

In  pleasure's  reckless  train  ; 
But  seas  dash'd  o'er  his  son's  bright  hair — 

He  never  smiled  agaiu  ! 

He  sat  where  festal  bowls  went  round, 

He  heard  the  minstrel  sing, 
He  saw  the  tourney's  victor  crown'd, 

Amidst  the  knightly  ring  : 
A  murmur  of  the  restless  deep 

Was  blent  with  every  strain, 
A  voice  of  winds  that  would  not  sleep — 

He  never  smiled  again. 

Hearts,  in  that  time,  closed  o'er  the  trace 
Of  vows  once  fondly  pour'd, 

And  strangers  took  the  kinsman's  place 
At  many  a  joyous  board  ; 

Graves,  which  true  love  had  bathed  with  tears, 
Were  left  to  heaven's  bright  rain, 

Fresh  hopes  were  born  for  other  years- 
He  never  smiled  again ! 


V214) 


BERNARDO  DEL  CARPIO. 

THE  warrior  bow'd  his  crested  head,  ana  tarnei 

his  heart  of  fire, 
And  sued  the  haughty  king  to  free  nis  iviig- 

imprisoned  ^re ; 
•'  I  bring  thte  here  my  fortress  keys,  I  bring  my 

captive  train, 
I  pledge  thee  faith,  my  liege,  my  lord :-  -on, 

break  my  father's  chain  !  " 


"  Rise,    rise !    even   now   thy   father   comes,    a 

ransom'd  man  this  day ; 
Mount  thy  good  horse,  and  thou  and  I  will  meet 

him  on  his  way." 
Then  lightly  rose  that  loyal  son,  and  bounded 

on  his  steed, 
And  urged,  as  if  with  lance  in  rest,  the  charger's 

foamy  speed. 


And  lo !  from  far,  as  on  they  press'd,  there  came 

a  glittering  band, 
With   one  that  'midst  thsin  stately  rode,  as  a 

leader  in  the  land  ; 
"Now  haste,  Bernardo,  haste!  for  there,  in  very 

truth,  is  he, 
The  father  whom  thy  faithful  heart  hath  yearn'd 

so  long  to  see." 


His  dark  eye  flash'd,  his  proud  breast  heaved,  his 

cheek's  blood  came  and  went ; 
He  reach'd  that  gray-hair'd  chieftain's  side,  and 

there,  dismounting,  bent ; 
A  lowly  knee  to  earth  he  bent,  his  father's  hand 

he  took, — 
What  was  there  in  its  touch  that  all  his  fiery 

spirit  shook  ? 

That  hand  was  cold — a  frozen  thing — it  dropp'd 

from  his  like  lead, — 
He  look'd  up  to  the  face  above — the  face  was  of 

the  dead  ! 
A  plume  waved  o'er  the  noble  brow — the  brow 

was  fix'd  and  white  ; — 
He  met  at  last  his  father's  eyes — but  in  them 

was  no  sight ! 

Up  from  the  ground  he  sprang,  and  gazeu,  but 

who  could  paint  that  gaze  ? 
They  hush'd   their   very  hearts,   that   saw    its 

horror  and  amaze  ; 
They  might  have  chain'd  him,  as  before  tnat 

stony  form  he  stood, 
For  the  power  was  stricken  from  nis  aim,  anc. 

from  his  lip  the  blood. 

"  Father  !  "  at  length  he  murmur'd  low—  and 

wept  like  childhood  then, — 
Talk  not  of  grief  till  thou  hast  seen  the  tears  of 

warlike  men  ' — 


(216) 

He  thought  on  all  his  glorious  hopes,  all  his 

young  renown  : 
He  flung  the  falchion  from  his  side,  and  in  the 

dust  sate  down. 


Then  covering  with  his  steel-gloved  hands  his 

darkly  mournful  brow, 
"No  more,  there  is  no  more,"  he  said,  "to  lift 

the  sword  for  now. — 
My  king  is  false,  my  hope  betray'd,  my  Father — 

oh  !  the  worth, 
The  glory  and  the  loveliness,  are  pass'd  away 

from  earth ! 


"  I  thought  to  stand  where  banners  waved,  my 

sire  !  beside  thee  yet, 
I  would  that  there  our  kindred  blood  on  Spain's 

free  soil  had  met, — 
Thou  wouldst  have  known  my  spirit  then, — for 

thee  my  fields  were  won, — 
And  thou  hast  perished  in  thy  chains,  as  though 

thou  hadst  no  son  !  " 


Then,  starting  from  the  ground  once  more,  he 

seized  the  monarch's  rein, 
Amidst  the  pale  and  wilder'd  looks  of  all  the 

courtier  train  : 
And  with  a  fierce,  o'ermastering  grasp,  the  rearing 

war-horse  led, 
And  sternly  set  them  face   to  face, — the  king 

before  the  dead  ! — 


(217) 

"  Came  I  not  forth  upon  thy  pledge,  my  father's 

hand  to  kiss  ? — 
Be  still,  and  gaze  thou  on,  false  king  !  and  tell 

me  what  is  this  ! 
The  voice,  the  glance,  the  heart  I  sought — give 

answer,  where  are  they  ? — 
If  thou  wouldst  clear  thy  perjured  soul,  send 

life  through  this  cold  clay ! 


"  Into  these  glassy  eyes  put  light — be  still !  keep 

down  thine  ire, — 
Bid  these  white  lips  a  blessing  speak — this  earth 

is  not  my  sire  ! 
Give  me  back  him  for  whom  I  strove,  for  whom 

my  blood  was  shed, — 
Thou   canst   not — and   a   king? — His   dust   be 

mountains  on  thy  head  !  " 

He  loosed  the  steed  ;  his  slack  hand  fell, — upon 

the  silent  face 
He  cast  one  long,  deep,  troubled  look, — then 

turn'd  from  that  sad  place  : 
His  hope  was  crush'd,  his  after-fate  untold  in 

martial  strain  j 
His  banner  led  the  spears  no  more  amidst  the 

hills  of  Spain. 

19 


(218) 


THE  HOUR  OF  DEATH. 

LEAVES  have  their  time  to  fall, 

And   flowers  to  wither   at    the   north-wind's 

breath, 
And  stars  to  set, — but  all, 

Thou  hast  all  seasons  for  thine  own,  O  Death  I 

Day  is  for  mortal  care, 

Eve,  for   glad    meetings    round    the   joyous 

hearth, 
Night   for   the    dreams   of  sleep,  the  voice    of 

prayer  ; 
But  all  for  thee,  thou  mightiest  of  the  earth. 

The  banquet  hath  its  hour, 

Its  feverish  hour  of  mirth,  and  song,  and  wine  ; 
There  comes  a  day  for  griefs  o'erwhelming  power. 

A  time  for  softer  tears, — but  all  are  thine. 

Youth  and  the  opening  rose 

May  look  like  things  too  glorious  for  decay, 
And  smile  at  thee — but  thou  art  not  of  those 

That  wait  the  ripen'd  bloom  to  seize  their  prey. 

Leaves  have  their  time  to  fall, 

And    flowers  to  wither   at    the    north-wind's 

breath, 
And  stars  to  set, — but  all, 

Thou  hast  all  seasons  for  thine  own,  O  Death ! 


(219) 

We  know  when  moons  shall  wane, 

When  summer  birds  from  far  shall  cross  the 

sea, 
When  autumn's    hue    shall    tinge    the    golden 

grain — 
Dut  who  shall  teach  us  when  to  look  for  theo  ? 

[s  it  when  spring's  first  gale 

Comes  forth  to  whisper  where  the  violets  lie? 
Is  it  when  roses  in  our  paths  grow  pale  ? — 

They  have  one  season — all  are  ours  to  die ! 

Thou  art  where  billows  foam, 

Thou  art  where  music  melts  upon  the  air  ; 
Thou  art  around  us  in  our  peaceful  home, 

And  the  world  calls  us  forth — and  thou  art 
there. 

Thou  art  where  friend  meets  friend, 

Beneath  the  shadow  of  the  elm  to  rest — 

Thou  art  where  foe  meets  foe,  and  trumpets  rend 
The  skies,  and  swords  beat  down  the  princely 
crest. 

Leaves  have  their  time  to  fall, 

And   flowers  to  wither   at   the   north-wind's 

breath, 
And  stars  to  set, — but  all, 

Thou  hast  all  seasons  for  thine  own,  O  Death  ! 


v  230  \ 


THE   VOICE   OF   HOMF    TV?    THE 
PRODIGAL. 

O  !  WHEN  wilt  thou  return 
To  thy  spirit's  early  loves  ? 

To  the  freshness  of  the  morn, 
To  the  stillness  of  the  groves  ? 

The  summer-birds  are  calling 
Thy  household  porch  around, 

And  the  merry  waters  falling 

With  sweet  laughter  in  their  sound 

And  a  thousand  bright-vein'd  flowers, 
From  their  banks  of  moss  and  fern, 

Breathe  of  the  sunny  hours — 
But  when  wilt  thou  return  ? 

Oh  !  thou  hast  wander'd  long 

From  thy  home  without  a  guide ; 

And  thy  native  woodland  song, 
In  thine  alter'd  heart  hath  died. 

Thou  hast  flung  the  wealth  away, 
And  the  glory  of  thy  Spring ; 

And  to  thee  the  leaves'  light  play 
Is  a  long-forgotten  thing. 

But  when  wilt  thou  return  "i — 
Sweet  dews  may  freshen  soon 

The  flower,  within  whose  urn 
Too  fiercely  gazed  the  noon. 


,.     (221) 

O'er  the  image  of  the  sky, 

Which  the  lake's  clear  bosom  wore, 
Darkly  may  shadows  lie — 

But  not  for  evermore. 

Give  hack  t  fry  heart  again 

To  the  f  eedom  of  the  woods, 

To  the  birds'  triumphant  strain, 
To  the  mountain  solitudes  ! 

But  when  wilt  thou  return? 

Along  thine  own  pure  air, 
There  are  young  sweet  voices  borne— 

Oh  !  should  not  thine  be  there  / 

Still  at  thy  father's  board 

There  is  kept  -a  place  for  thee  ; 

And,  by  thy  smile  restored, 
Joy  round  the  hearth  shall  be. 

Still  hal.'i  thy  mother's  eye, 

Thy  coming  step  to  greet, 
A  look  of  days  gone  by, 

Tender  and  gravely  sweet. 

Still,  when  the  prayer  is  said, 
For  thee  kind  bosoms  yearn, 

For  theo  kiiid  tears  are  shed — 
Oh  !  when  wilt  thou  return  ' 

19* 


(222) 


LET  HER  DEPART. 

HER  home  is  far,  oh  !  far  away  ! 

The  clear  light  in  her  eyes 
Hath  hanght  to  do  with  earthly  day, 

'Tis  kindled  from  the  skies. 
Let  her  depart ! 

She  looks  upon  the  things  of  earth, 

Even  as  some  gentle  star 
Seems  gazing  down  on  grief  or  mirth, 

How  softly,  yet  how  far  ! 
Let  her  depart ! 

Her  spirit's  hope — her  bosom's  love — 
Oh !  could  they  mount  and  fly ! 

She  never  sees  a  wandering  dove, 
But  for  its  wings  to  sigh. 

Let  her  depart ! 

She  never  hears  a  soft  wind  bear 

Low  music  on  its  way, 
But  deems  it  sent  from  heavenly  air, 

For  her  who  cannot  stay. 
Let  her  depart ! 

Wrapt  in  a  cloud  of  glorious  dreams, 
She  breathes  and  moves  alone, 

Pining  for  those  bright  bowers  and  streams 
Where  her  beloved  is  gone. 
Let  her  depart ! 


(223) 


SONG  OF  EMIGRATION. 

THERE  was  heard  a  song  on  the  chiming  sea, 

A  mingled  breathing  of  grief  and  glee  ; 

Man's  voice,  unbroken  by  sighs,  was  there, 

Filling  with  triumph  the  sunny  air  ; 

Of  fresh  green  lands,  and  of  pastures  new, 

It  sang,  wh'le  the  bark  through  the  surges  flew 

But  ever  and  anon 

A  murmur  of  farewell 
Told  by  its  plaintive  tone, 

That  from  woman's  lip  it  fell. 

••'  Away,  away,  o'er  the  foaming  main  !  " 
— This  was  the  free  and  the  joyous  strain — 
"  There  are  clearer  skies  than  ours,  afar, 
We  will  shape  our  course  by  a  brighter  star  ; 
There  are  plains  whose  verdure  no  foot    hath 

press'd, 
And  whose  wealth  is  all  for  the  first  brave  guest." 

"  But  alas  !  that  we  should  go," 
— Sang  the  farewell  voices  then — 

"  From  the  homesteads,  warm  and  low, 
By  the  brook  and  in  the  glen  !  " 

"  We  will  rear  new  homes  under  trees  that  glow 
As  if  gems  were  fruitage  of  every  bough  ; 


(224) 

O'er  our  white  walls  we  will  train  the  vine, 
And  sit  in  its  shadow  at  day's  decline ; 
And  watch  our  herds,  as  they  range  at  will 
Through  the  green  savannas,  all  bright  arid  still." 

"  But  woe  for  that  sweet  shade 
Of  the  flowering  orchard  tress, 

Where  first  our  children  play'd 
'Midst  the  birds  and  honey  bees." 

"  All,  all  our  own  shall  the  forests  be, 

As  to  the  bound  of  the  roebuck  free ! 

None  shall  say,  '  Hither,  no  further  pass ! ' 

We  will  track  each  step  through  the  wavy  grass  , 

We  will  chase  the  elk  in  his  speed  and  might, 

And  bring  proud  spoils  to  the  hearth  at  night." 

"  But  oh  !  the  grey  church  tower, 
And  the  sound  of  Sabbath  bell, 

And  the  shelter'd  garden  bower, — 
We  have  bid  them  all  farewell  !  " 

"  We  will  give  the  names  of  our  fearless  race 
To  each  bright  river  whose  course  we  trace  ; 
And  will  leave  our  mem'ry  with  mounts:  and  floods, 
And  the  path  of  our  daring  in  boundless  woods! 
And  our  works  unto  many  a  lake's  green  shore, 
Whore  the  Indian  graves  lay,  alone,  before." 

"  But  who  shall  teach  the  flowers, 
Which  our  children  loved,  to  dwell 

Tn  a  soil  that  is  not  ours  ? 

— Home,  home  and  friends,  farewell !  " 


•(  225  ) 


THE  TRUMPET. 

THE  trumpet's  voice  hath  roused  the  land-- 
Light up  the  beacon-pyre  ! — 

A  hundred  hills  have  seen  the  brand, 
And  waved  the  sign  of  fire. 

A  hundred  banners  to  the  breeze, 
Their  gorgeous  folds  have  cast — 

And,  hark !  was  that  the  sound  of  seas  ? 
A  king  to  war  went  past. 

The  chief  is  arming  in  his  hall, 

The  peasant  by  his  hearth  ; 
The  mourner  hears  the  thrilling  call, 

And  rises  from  the  earth. 
The  mother  on  her  first-born  son, 

Looks  with  a  boding  eye — 
They  come  not  back,  though  all  be  won, 

Whose  young  hearts  leap  so  high. 

The  bard  hath  ceased  his  song,  and  bound 

The  falchion  to  his  side  ; 
E'en  for  the  marriage  altar  crown'd, 

The  lover  quits  his  bride. 
And  all  this  haste,  and  change,  and  fear; 

By  earthly  clarion  spread  ! — 
How  will  it  be  when  kingdoms  hear 

The  blast  that  wakes  the  dead  ? 


^226) 


DESPONDENCY  AND  ASPIRATION. 

Mr  soul  was  mantled  with  dark  shadows,  born 

Of  lonely  Fear,  disquieted  in  vain  ; 
[ts  phantoms  hung  around  the  star  of  morn, 

A  cloud-like  weeping  train  ; 
Through  the  long  day  they  dimm'd  the  autumn 

gold 

On  all  the  glistening  leaves  ;  and  wildly  roll'd, 
When    the    last   farewell  flush   of  light  was 

glowing 

Across  the  sunset  sky  ; 

O'er  its  rich  isles  of  vaporous  glory  throwing 
One  melancholy  dye. 

Arid  when  the  solemn  Night 
Came  rushing  with  her  might 
Of  stormy  oracles  from  caves  unknown, 
Then  with  each  fitful  blast 
Prophetic  murmurs  pass'd, 
Wakening  or  answering  some  deep  Sibyl  tone. 
Far  buried  in  my  breast,  yet  prompt  to  rise 
With  every  gusty  wail  that  o'er  the  wind-harp 
flies. 

"  Fold,  fold  thy  wings,"  they  cried,  "  and  strivt 

no  more, 
Faint  spirit,  strive  no  more  ! — for  thee  too  strong 

Are  outward  will  and  wrong, 
A.nd  inward  wasting  fires ! — Thou  canst  not  soaj 


(227) 

Free  on  a  starry  way 
Beyond  their  blighting  sway, 
At  Heaven's  high  gate  serenely  to  adore  ! 
How    shouldst    thou   hope    Earth's    fetters    to 

unbind  ? 

O   passionate,    yet   weak!      O   trembler  to  the 
wind ! 

f "  Never,  shall  aiight  but  broken  music  flow 
From  joy  of  thine,  deep  love,  or  tearful  woe  ; 
Such  homeless  notes  as  through  the  forest  sigh, 
From  the  reeds  hollow  shaken, 
When  sudden  breezes  waken 

Their  vague  wild  symphony  : 
No  power  is  theirs,  and  no  abiding  place 
In  human  hearts ;  their  sweetness  leaves  no  trace- 
Born  only  so  to  die  ! 

"  Never  shall  aught  but  perfume,  faint  and  vain, 
On  the  fleet  pinion  of  the  changeful  hour. 
From  thy  bruised  life  again 

A  moment's  essence  breathe  ; 
Thy  life,  whose  trampled  flower 

Into  the  blessed  wreath 
Of  household  charities  no  longer  bound, 
Lies  pale  and  withering  on  the  barren  ground. 

"  So  fade,  fade  on !  thy  gift  of  love  shall  clir.g, 
A  coiling  sadness,  round  thy  heart  and  brain, 

A  silent,  fruitless,  yet  undying  thing, 
All  sensitive  to  pain  ! 

And  still  the  shadow  of  vain  dreams  shall  fall 

O'er  thy  mind's  world,  a  daily  darkening  pall. 


( 228 ) 

Fold,  then,  thy  wounded  wing,  and  sink  subdued, 
In  cold  and  unrepining  quietude  !  " 

Then  my  soul  yielded ;  spells  of  numbing  breath 

Crept  o'er  it  heavy  with  a  dew  of  death, 

Its  powers,  like  leaves  before    the    night    rain. 

closing  ; 

And,  as  by  conflict  of  wild  sea- waves  toss'd 
On  the  chill  bosom  of  some  desert  coast, 
Mutely  and  hopelessly  I  lay  reposing. 

When  silently  it  seem'd 

As  if  a  soft  mist  gleam'd 
Before  my  passive  sight,  and,  slowly  curling, 

To  many  a  shape  and  hue 

Of  vision'd  beauty  grew, 

Like  a  wrought  banner,  fold  by  fold  unfurling. 
Oh  !  the  rich  scenes  that  o'er  mine  inward  eye 

Unrolling  then  swept  by, 

With  dreamy  motion !     Silvery  seas  were  there 
Lit  by  large  dazzling  stars,  and  arch'd  by  skies 
Of  southern  midnight's  most  transparent  dyes, 
And  gemm'd  with  many  an  island,  wildly  fair, 
Which  floated  past  me  into  orient  day, 
Still  gathering  lustre  on  th'  illumin'd  way, 
Till  its  high  groves  of  wondrous  flowering  trees 

Color'd  the  silvery  seas. 

Arid  then  a  glorious  mountain-chain  uprose, 

Height  above  spiry  height ! 
A  soaring  solitude  of  woods  and  snows 

All  steep'd  in  golden  light ! 


While  as  it  pass'd,  those  regal  peaks  unveiling, 

I  heard,  methought,  a  waving  of  dread  wings 
And  mighty  sounds,  as  if  the  vision  hailing, 

From  lyres  that  quiver 'd  through  ten  thousan  .1 

strings  : 
Or  as  if  waters  forth  to  music  leaping, 

From  many  a  cave  the  Alpine  Echo's  hall, 
On  their  bold  way  victoriously  were  sweeping, 

Link'd  in  majestic  anthems  !  while  through  all 

That  billowy  swell  and  fall, 
Voices,  like  ringing  crystal,  fill'd  the  air  ' 

With  inarticulate  melody,  that  stirr'd 

My  being's  core  ;  then,  moulding  into  word 
Their  piercing  sweetness,  bade  me  rise  and  bear 

In  that  great  choral  strain  my  trembling  part 
Of  tones,  by  love  and  faith  struck  from  a  human 
heart. 

Return  no  more,  vain  bodings  of  the  night ! 

A  happier  oracle  within  my  soul 
Hath    swell 'd    to   power  ; — a  clear  unwavering 
light  [me  roll, 

Mounts  through  the  battling  clouds  that  round 

And  to  a  new  control 
Nature's  full  harp  gives  forth  rejoicing  tcnes, 

Wherein  my  glad  sense  owns 

The  accordant  rush  of  elemental  sound 

To  one  consummate  harmony  profound ; 

One  grand  Creation  Hymn, 

Whose  notes  the  seraphim 

Lift  to  the  glorious  height  of  music  wing'd  and 
crown'd. 
20 


(230) 

Shall  not  those  notes  find  echoes  in  my  lyre, . 
Faithful  though  faint? — Shall  not  my  spirit's 

fire, 
If  slowly,  yet  unswervingly,  ascend 

Now  to  its  fount  and  end  ? 
Shall  not  my  earthly  love,  all  purified, 
Shine  forth  a  heavenward  guide  ? 
An  angel  of  bright  power  ? — and  strongly  bear 
My  being  upward  into  holier  air, 
Where  fiery  passion-clouds  have  no  abode, 
And  the  sky's  temple-arch  o'erflows  with  God  ? 

The  radiant  hope  new-born 

Expands  like  rising  morn 
In  my  life's  life  :  and  as  a  ripening  rose 
The  crimson  shadow  of  its  glory  throws 
More  vivid,  hour  by  hour,  on  some  pure  stream  ; 

So  from  that  hope  are  spreading 

Rich  hues,  o'er  nature  shedding. 
Each  day,  a  clearer,  spiritual  gleam. 

Let  not  those  rays  fade  from  me — once  enjoy'd, 

Father  of  spirits !  let  them  not  depart ! 
Leaving  the  chill'd  earth,  without  form  and  void 

Darken'd  by  mine  own  heart ! 
I.  ft,  aid,  sustain  me  !     Thou,  by  whom  alone 

All  lovely  gifts  and  pure 

In  the  soul's  grasp  endure  ; 
Thou,  to  the  steps  of  whose  eternal  throne 
All  knowledge  flows — a  sea  for  evermore 
Breaking  its  crested  waves  on  that  sole  shore — 
O  consecrate  my  life  !  that  I  may  sing 
Of  Thee  with  joy  that  hath  a  living  spring, 


In  a  full  heart  of  music  ! — Let  my  lays 
Through   the   resounding  mountains  waft  thy 

praise, 
And  with  that  theme  the  wood's  green  cloisteis 

fill, 

And  make  their  quivering  leafy  dimness  thrill 
To  the  rich  breeze  of  song  !     Oh  !   let  me  wake 

The  deep  religion  which  hath  dwelt  from 

yore, 
Silently  brooding  by  lone  cliff  and  lake, 

And  wildest  river  shore  ! 
And  let  me  summon  all  the  voices  dwelling 
Whose  eagles  build,  and  cavern'd  rills  are  welling, 
And  where  the  cataract's  organ-peal  is  swelling, 

In  that  one  spirit  gather'd  to  adore  ! 

Forgive,  O  Father !  if  presumptuous  thought 

Too  daringly  in  aspiration  rise  ! 
Let  not  thy  child  all  vainly  have  been  taught 

By  weakness,  and  by  wanderings,  and  by  sighs 
Of  sad  confession  ! — lowly  be  my  heart, 

And  on  its  penitential  altar  spread 
The  offerings  worthless,  till  thy  grace  impart 

The  fire  from  Heaven,  whose  touch  alone  can 

shed 

Life,  radiance,  virtue ! — let  that  vital  spark 
Pierce  my  whole  being,  wilder'd  else  and  daik ! 

Thine  are  all  holy  things — O  make  me  Thine, 
So  shall  I,  too,  be  pure — a  living  shrine 
Unto  that  spirit  which  goes  forth  from  Thee, 
Strong  and  divinely  free, 


(232) 

Bearing  thy  gifts  of  wisdom  on  its  flight, 

And  brooding  o'er  them  with  a  dove-like  wing, 

Till  thought,  word,  song,  to  Thee  in  worship 

spring, 
Immortality  endow'd  for  liberty  and  light. 


TO  THE  MEMORY  OF  THE  DEAD. 

FORGET  them  not : — though  now  their  name 

Be  but  a  mournful  sound, 
Though  by  the  hearth  its  utterance  claim 

A  stillness  round. 


Though  for  their  sake  this  earth  no  more 

As  it  hath  been  may  be, 
And  shadows,  never  mark'd  before. 

Brood  o'er  each  tree  : 


And  though  their  image  dim  the  sky, 

Yet,  yet  "forget  them  not ! 
Nor,  where  their  love  and  life  went  by, 

Forsake  the  spot  I 

They  have  a  breathing  influence  there, 
A  charm  not  elsewhere  found  ; 

Sad — yet  it  sanctifies  the  air, 
The  stream — the  ground 


(233) 

Then,  though  the  wind  an  al'eer'd  tone 
Through  the  young  foliage  bear, 

Though  every  flower,  of  something 
A  tinge  may  wear  ; 

Oh  !  fly  it  not ! — no  fruitless  grief 

Thus  in  their  presence  felt, 
A  record  links  to  every  leaf 

There,  where  they  dwelt. 

Still  trace  the  path  which  knew  their  tread, 

Still  tend  their  gardcn-bo  wer, 
Still  commune  with  the  holy  dead 

In  each  lone  hour ! 


The  holy  dead  ! — oh  !  bless'd  we  are, 

That  we  may  call  them  so, 
And  to  their  image  look  afar, 

Through  all  our  woe  ! 

Bless'd,  that  the  things  they  loved  on  earth, 

As  relics  we  may  hold, 
That  wake  sweet  thoughts  of  parted  worth, 

By  springs  untold ! 

Bless'd,  that  a  deep  and  chastening  power 

Thus  o'er  our  souls  is  given, 
If  but  to  bird,  or  song,  or  flower, 

Yet  all  for  Heaven  ! 
20* 


(234) 


MOZART'S  REQUIEM 

A  REQUIEM  ! — and  for  whom  ? 

For  beauty  in  its  bloom  ? 
For  valor  fallen — a  broken  rose  or  sword  ? 

A  dirge  for  king  or  chief, 

With  pomp  of  stately  grief, 
Banner,  and  torch,  and  waving  plume  deplored  1 

Not  so,  it  is  not  so  ! 

That  warning  voice  I  know, 
From  other  worlds  a  strange  mysterious  tone ; 

A  solemn  funeral  air 

It  call'd  me  to  prepare, 
And  my  heart  answer'd  secretly — my  own  ! 

One  more  then,  one  more  strain, 

In  links  of  joy  and  pain 
Mighty  the  troubled  spirit  to  enthral ! 

And  let  me  breathe  my  dower 

Of  passion  and  of  power 
FuL  into  that  deep  lay — the  last  of  all ! 

The  last ! — and  I  must  go 

From  this  bright  world  below, 
This  realm  of  sunshine,  ringing  with  sweet  sound ! 

Must  leave  its  festal  skies, 

With  all  their  melodies, 
That  evei  in  my  breast  glad  echoes  found ! 


( 235 ) 

Yet  have  I  known  it  long  • 

Too  restless  and  too  strong  [flame  ; 

Within  this  clay  hath  been   the   o'ermastering 

Swift  thoughts,  that  came  and  went, 

Like  torrents  o'er  me  sent, 
Have  shaken,  as  a  reed,  my  thrilling  frame. 

Like  perfumes  on  the  wind, 

Which  none  may  stay  or  bind, 
The  beautiful  comes  floating  through  my  soul ; 

I  strive  with  yearnings  vain, 

The  spirit  to  detain 
Of  the  deep  harmonies  that  past  me  roll ! 

Therefore  disturbing  dreams 

Trouble  the  secret  streams 
And  founts  of  music  that  o'erflow  my  breast ; 

Something  far  more  divine 

Than  may  on  earth  be  mine, 
Haunts  my  worn  heart,  and  will  not  let  me  rest 

Shall  I  then  fear  the  tone 

That  breathes  from  worlds  unknown  ?— 
Surely  these  feverish  aspirations  there 

Shall  grasp  their  full  desire, 

And  this  unsettled  fire, 
Burn  calmly,  brightly,  in  immortal  air. 

Once  more  then,  one  more  strain, 

To  earthly  joy  and  pain 
A  rich,  and  deep,  and  passionate  farewell ! 

I  pour  jeach  fervent  thought 

With  fear,  hope,  trembling  fraught, 
Into  the  notes  that  o'er  my  dust  shall  swell 


'236^ 


THE  FUNERAL  GENIUS  ;    AN   ANCIENT 
STATUE. 

THOU  shotildst  be  look  VI  on  when  the  starlight  falls 
Through  the  blue  stillness  of  the  summer-air, 
Not  by  the  torch-fire  wavering  on  the  walls — 
It  hath  too  fitful  and  too  wild  a  glare ! 
And  thou ! — thy  rest,  the  soft,  the  lovely,  seems 
To  ask  light  steps,  that  will  not  break  its  dreams. 

Flowers  are  upon  thy  brow ;  for  so  the  dead 
Were  crown'd  of  old,  with  pale  spring  flowers 

like  these  : 

Sleep  on  thine  eye  hath  sunk  ;  yet  softly  shed, 
As  from  the  wing  of  some  faint  southern  breeze : 
And  the  pine-boughs  o'ershadow  thee  with  gloom 
Which  of  the  grove  seems  breathing — not  the 

tomb. 

They  fear'd  not  death,  whose  calm  and  gracious 

thought 

Of  the  last  hour,  hath  settled  thus  in  thee ! 
They  who  thy  wreath  and  pallid  roses  wrought, 
And  laid  thy  head  against  the  forest  tree, 
As  that  of  one,  by  music's  dreamy  close, 
On  the  wood-violets  lull'd  to  deep  repose. 

They  fear'd  not  death ! — yet  who  shall  say  hig 

touch 
Thus  lightly  falls  on  gentle  things  and  fair  ? 


(237} 

Doth  he  bestow,  or  will  he  leave  so  much 

Of  tender  beauty  as  thy  features  wear  ? 

Thou  sleeper  of  the  bower !  on  whose  young 

eyes 
So  still  a  night,  a  night  of  summer,  lies  ! 

Had  they  seen  aught  like  thee  ? — Did  some  fail 

boy 

Thus,  with  his  graceful  hair,  before  them  rest  ? 
— His  graceful  hair,  no  more  to  wave  in  joy, 
But  drooping,  as  with  heavy  dews  oppress'd : 
And  his  eye  veil'd  so  softly  by  its  fringe, 
And  his  lip  faded  to  the  white-rose  tinge ! 

Oh !  happy,  if  to  them  the  one-  dread  hour 
Made  known  its  lessons  from  a  brow  like  thine  ! 
If  all  their  knowledge  of  the  spoiler's  power 
Came  by  a  look  so  tranquilly  divine ! 
— Let  him,  who  thus  hath  seen  the  lovely  part, 
Hold  well  that  image  to  his  thoughtful  heart ! 

But  thou,  fair  slumberer  !  was  there  less  of  woe, 

Or  love,  or  terror,  in  the  days  of  old, 

Tljat  men  pour'd  out  their  gladdening  spirit's 

flow, 

Like  sunshine,  on  the  desolate  and  cold, 
And  gave  thy  semblance  to  the  shadowy  king, 
Who  for  deep  souls  had  then  a  deeper  sting  ? 

In  the  dark  bosom  of  the  earth  they  laid 
Far  more  than  we — for  loftier  faith  is  ours ! 
Their  gems  were  lest  in  ashes — yet  they  made 
The  grave  a  place  of  beauty  and  of  flowers, 


(238) 

With    fragrant    wreaths,    and    summer    boughs 

array'd, 
And    lovely   sculpture    gleaming    through    the 

shade. 

h  it  for  us  a  darker  gloom  to  shed 

O'er  its  dim  precincts? — do  we  not  intrust 

But  for  a  time,  its  chambers  with  our  dead, 

And  strew  immortal  seed  upon  the  dust  ? 

— Why  should  we  dwell    on   that   which    lies 

beneath, 
When   living  light  hath  touch'd  the  brow  ol 

death  ? 


THE  GRAVES  OF  MARTYRS. 

THE  kings  of  old  have  shrine  and  tomb 
In  many  a  minster's  haughty  gloofn  ; 
And  green,  along  the  ocean  side, 
The  mounds  rise  where  heroes  died  ; 
But  show  me,  on  thy  flowery  breast, 
Earth  !  where  thy  nameless  martyrs  rest ! 

The  thousands  that,  uncheer'd  by  praise, 
Have  made  one  offering  of  their  days  ; 
For  Truth,  for  Heaven,  for  Freedom's  sake, 
Resign'd  the  bitter  cup  to  take  : 
And  silently,  in  fearless  faith, 
Bowing  their  noble  souls  to  death. 


(  239  ) 

Where  sleep  they  Earth? — by  no  proud  stone 

Their  narrow  couch  of  rest  is  known ; 

The  still  sad  glory  of  their  name 

Hallows  no  mountain  unto  Fame ; 

No — not  a  tree  the  record  bears 

Of  their  deep  thoughts  and  lonely  prayers. 

Yet  haply  all  around  lie  strew'd 

The  ashes  of  that  multitude  : 

It  may  be  that  each  day  we  tread. 

Where  thus  devoted  hearts  have  bled  ; 

And  the  young  flowers  our  children  sow, 

Take  root  in  holy  dust  below. 

O  that  the  many-rustling  leaves, 

Which  round  our  homes  the  summer  weaves 

Or  that  the  streams,  in  whose  glad  voice 

Our  own  familiar  paths  rejoice, 

Might  whisper  through  the  starry  sky, 

To  tell  where  those  blest  slumberers  lie ! 

Would  not  our  inmost  hearts  be  stilPd, 
With  knowledge  of  their  presence  fill'd, 
And  by  its  breathings  taught  to  prize 
The  meekness  of  self-sacrifice  ? 
— But  the  old  woods  and  sounding  waves 
Are  silent  of  those  hidden  graves. 

Yet  what  if  no  light  footstep  there 
In  pilgrim-love  and  awe  repair, 
So  let  it  be  ! — like  him,  whose  clay 
Deep  buried  by  his  Maker  lay, 
They  sleep  in  secret, — but  their  sod, 
Unknown  to  man,  is  mark'd  by  God ! 


-,240) 


THE  IVY  SONG. 

OH  !  how  could  fancy  crown  with  thee, 

In  ancient  days  the  God  of  Wine, 
And  bid  thee  at  the  banquet  be 

Companion  of  the  Vine  ? 
Ivy !  thy  home  is  where  each  sound 

Of  revelry  hath  long  been  o'er, 
Where  song  and  beaker  once  went  round, 

But  now  are  known  no  more, 

Where  long-fallen  gods  recline, 
There  the  place  is  thine. 


The  Roman  on  his  battle-plains, 

Where  kings  before  his  eagles  bent, 
With  thee,  amidst  exulting  strains, 

Shadow'd  the  victor's  tent : 
Though  shining  there  in  deathless  green, 

Triumphally  thy  boughs  might  wave, 
Better  thou  lovest  the  silent  scene 

Around  the  victor's  grave — 

Urn  and  sculpture  half  divine 
Yield  their  place  to  thine. 

The  cold  halls  of  the  regal  dead, 

Where  lone  the  Italian  sunbeams  dwell. 

Where  hollow  sounds  the  lightest  tread — 
Ivy !  they  know  thee  well ! 


And  far  above  the  festal  vine, 

Thou  wavest  where  once-proud  banners  hung, 
Where  mouldering  turrets  crest  the  Rhine, 
— The  Rhine,  still  fresh  and  young ! 

Tower  and  rampart  o'er  the  Rhine, 
Ivy  !  all  are  thine  ! 


High  from  the  fields  of  air  look  down — 

Those  eyries  of  a  vanish'd  race, 
Where  harp,  and  battle,  and  renown, 

Have  pass'd,  and  left  no  trace. 
But  thou  art  there  ! — serenely  bright, 

Meeting  the  mountain  storms  with  bloom 
Thou  that  wilt  climb  the  loftiest  height, 

Or  crown  the  lowliest  tomb  ! 
Ivy,  Ivy  !  all  are  thine, 
Palace,  hearth,  and  shrine. 

'Tis  still  the  same  ;  our  pilgrim  tread 

O'er  classic  plains,  through  deserts  free, 
On  the  mute  path  of  ages  fled, 

Still  meets  decay  and  thee. 
And  still  let  man  his  fabrics  rear, 

August  in  beauty,  stern  in  power, 
— Days  pass — thou  Ivy  never  sere, 

And  thou  shall  have  thy  dower. 

All  are  thine,  or  must  be  thine—- 
Temple, pillar,  shrine ! 

21 


THE  NIGHTINGALE'S  DEATH  SONG. 

MOURNFULLY,  sing  mournfully, 

And  die  away  my  heart ! 
The  rose,  the  glorious  rose  is  gone, 

And  I,  too,  will  depart. 

The  skies  have  lost  their  splendor, 
The  waters  changed  their  tone, 

And  wherefore,  in  the  faded  world, 
Should  music  linger  on  ? 

Where  is  the  golden  sunshine, 

And  where  the  flower-cup's  glow  i 

And  where  the  joy  of  the  dancing  leaves, 
And  the  fountain's  laughing  flow  ? 

A  voice,  in  every  whisper 

Of  the  wave,  the  bough,  the  air, 

Comes  asking  for  the  beautiful, 

And  moaning,  "  Where,  oh  !  where  i  " 

Tell  of  the  brightness  parted, 
Thou  bee,  thou  lamb  at  play  ! 

Thou  lark  in  thy  victorious  mirth  ! 
— Are  ye,  too,  pass'd  away ! 

Mournfully,  sing  mournfully ! 

The  royal  rose  is  gone. 
Melt  from  the  woods,  my  spirit,  melt 

In  one  deep  farewell  tone  ! 


(243) 

Not  so,  swell  forth  triumphantly, 

The  full,  rich,  fervent  strain ! 
Hence  with  young  love  and  life  I  go, 

In  the  summer's  joyous  train. 

With  sunshine,  with  sweet  odor, 

With  every  precious  thing, 
Upon  the  last  warm  southern  breeze 

My  soul  its  flight  shall  wing. 

Alone  I  shall  not  linger, 

When  the  days  of  hope  are  past, 
To  watch  the  fall  of  leaf  by  leaf, 

To  wait  the  rushing  blast. 

Triumphantly,  triumphantly ! 

Sing  to  the  woods,  I  go ! 
For  me,  perchance,  in  other  lands, 

The  glorious  rose  may  blow. 

The  sky's  transparent  azure, 

And  the  greensward's  violet  breath, 

And  the  dance  of  light  leaves  in  the  wind, 
May  these  know  naught  of  death. 

No  more,  no  more  sing  mournfully ! 

Swell  high,  then  break,  my  heart ! 
With  love,  the  spirit  of  the  wind, 

With  summer  I  depart. 


244) 


THE  REVELLERS. 

RING,  joyous  chords ! — ring  out  again  ! 

A  swifter  still,  and  a  wilder  strain ! 

They  are  here — the  fair  face  and  the  careless 

heart, 

And  stars  shall  wane  ere  the  mirthful  part. — 
But  I  met  a  dimly  mournful  glance, 
In  a  sudden  turn  of  the  flying  dance  ; 
I  heard  the  tone  of  a  heavy  sigh 
In  a  pause  of  the  thrilling  melody ! 
And  it  is  not  well  that  woe  should  breathe 
On  the  bright  spring  flowers  of  the  festal  wreath ! 
Ye  that  to  thought  or  to  grief  belong, 
Leave,  leave  the  hall  of  song ! 

Ring,  joyous  chords ! — but  who  art  thou 

With  the  shadowy  locks  o'er  thy  pale,  young 

brow, 

And  the  world  of  dreamy  gloom  that  lies 
In  the  misty  depths  of  thy  soft  dark  eyes  ? 
Thou  hast  loved,  fair  girl !  thou  hast  loved  too 

well! 

Thou  art  mourning  now  o'er  a  broken  spell ; 
Thou  hast  pour'd  thy  heart's  rich  treasures  forth, 
And  art  unrepaid  for  their  priceless  worth ! 
Mourn  on ! — yet  come  thou  not  here  the  while, 
It  is  but  a  pain  to  see  thee  smile  ! 
There  is  not  a  tone  in  our  songs  for  thee — 


to" 


Home  with  thy  sorrows  flee  ! 


f  245) 

Ring,  joyous  chords  ! — ring  out  again  ! 
But  what  dost  thou  with  the  revel's  train  ? 
A  silvery  voice  through  the  soft  air  floats, 
But  thou  hast  no  part  in  the  gladd'ning  notes ; 
There  are  bright  young  faces  that  pass  thee  by, 
But  they  fix  no  glance  of  thy  wandering  eye  ! 
Away,  there's  a  void  in  thy  yearning  breast, 
Thou  weary  man  !  wilt  thou  here  find  rest  ? 
Away  !  for  thy  thoughts  from  the  scene  have  fled, 
And  the  love  of  thy  spirit  is  with  the  dead  ! 
Thou  art  but  more  lone  'midst  the  sounds  of  mirth, 
Back  to  thy  silent  hearth  ! 


Ring,  joyous  chords  ! — ring  forth  again ! 

A  swifter  still,  and  a  wilder  strain  ! — 

But  thou,  though  a  reckless  mien  be  thine, 

And  thy  cup  be  crown'd  with  the  foaming  wine, 

By  the  fitful  bursts  of  thy  laughter  loud, 

By  thine  eye's  quick  flash  through  its  troubled 

^cloud, 

1  know  thee  !  it  is  but  the  wakeful  fear 
Of  a  haunted  bosom  that  brings  thee  here ! 
I  know  thee  ! — thou  fearest  the  solemn  night, 
With    her    piercing  stars  and    her  deep  wind's 

might ! 
There's  a  tone  in  her  voice  which  thou  fain 

wouldst  shun, 

For  it  asks  what  the  secret  soul  hath  done ! 
And   thou — there's  a  dark  weight  on  thine  — 

away ! — 

Back  to  thy  horn  '  and  pray  1 
21* 


(  246  ) 

Ring,  joyous  chords  ! — ring  out  again  ! 

A  swifter  still,  and  a  wilder  strain  ! 

And  bring  fresh  wreaths ! — we  will  banish  all 

Save  the  free  in  heart  from  our  festive  hall. 

On !  through  the  maze  of  the  fleeting  dance,  on  ! — 

But  where  are  the  young  and  the  lovely  ? — gone  ! 

Where  are  the  brows  with  the  Red  Cross  crown'd, 

And  the  floating  forms  with   the   bright    zone 

bound  ? 

And  the  waving  locks  and  the  flying  feet, 
That  still  should  be  where  the  mirthful  meet  ? 
They  are  gone — they  are  fled — they  are  parted  all : 
Alas  !  the  forsaken  hall ! 


OH  !  droop  thou  not,  my  gentle  earthly  love  ! 

Mine  still  to  be  ! 
I  bore  through  death,  to  brighter  lands  above, 

My  thoughts  of  thee. 

Yes !  the  deep  memory  of  our  holy  tears, 

C  ir  mingled  prayer, 
Our  suffering  love,  through  long  devoted  years, 

Went  with  me  there. 

It  was  not  vain,  the  hallow'd  and  the  tried — 

It  was  not  vain  ! 
Still,  though  unseen,  still  hovering  at  thy  side, 

I  watch  again  ! 


(247) 

From  our  own  paths,  our  love's  attesting  bowers, 

I  am  not  gone  ; 
[n  the  deep  calm  of  Midnight's  whispering  hours, 

Thou  art  not  lone  : 

Not  lone,  when  by  the  haunted  streams  thou 
That  stream  whose  tone  [weepest, 

Murmurs  of  thoughts,  the  richest  and  the  deepest, 
We  two  have  known  : 

Not  lone,  when  mournfully  some  strain  awaking 

Of  days  long  past, 
From  thy  soft  eyes  the  sudden  tears  are  breaking, 

Silent  and  fast : 

Not  lone,  when  upwards,  in  fond  visions  turning 
Thy  dreamy  glance,  [burning, 

Thou  seek'st  my  home,  where  solemn  stars  are 
O'er  night's  expanse. 

My  home  is  near  thee,  loved  one  !  and  around  thee, 
Where'er  thou  art ;  [thee, 

Though  still  mortality's  thick  cloud  hath  bound 
Doubt  not  thy  heart  ! 

Hear  its  *ow  voice,  nor  deem  thyself  forsaken- 
Let  faith  be  given 

To  the  still  tones  which  oft  our  being  waken 
They  are  of  heaven  ! 


(248) 


SWISS  SONG, 

ON  THE  ANNIVERSARY  OF  AN  ANCIENT  BATTLE. 

LOOK  on  the  white  Alps  round ! 

If  yet  they  gird  a  land 
Where  Freedom's  voice  and  step  are  found, 

Forget  ye  not  the  band, — 
The  faithful  band,  our  sires,  who  fell 
Here  in  the  narrow  battle  dell ! 

If  yet  the  wilds  among, 

Our  silent  hearts  may  bum, 
When  the  deep  mountain-horn  hath  rung, 

And  home  our  steps  may  turn, — 
Home  ! — home  ! — if  still  that  name  be  dear, 
Praise  to  the  men  who  perish'd  here  ! 

Look  on  the  white  Alps  round ! 

Up  to  their  shining  snows, 
That  day  the  stormy  rolling  sound, 

The  sound  of  battle,  rose  ! 
Their  caves  prolonged  the  trumpet's  blast, 
Their  dark  pines  trembled  as  it  pass'd  ! 

They  saw  the  princely  crest, 

They  saw  the  knightly  spear, 
The  banner  and  the  mail-clad  breast, 

Borne  down  and  trampled  here ! 
They  saw — and  glorying  there  they  stand. 
Eternal  records  to  the  land  ! 


(249) 

Praise  to  the  mountain-born, 
The  brethren  of  the  glen  ! 
T3y  them  no  steel  array  was  worn, 

They  stood  as  peasant-men  ! 
They  left  the  vineyard  and  the  field, 
To  break  an  empire's  lance  and  shield ! 

Look  on  the  white  Alps  round ! 

If  yet,  along  their  steeps, 
Our  children's  fearless  feet  may  bound, 

Free  as  the  chamois  leaps  : 
Teach  them  in  song  to  bless  the  band 
Amidst  whose  mossy  graves  we  stand ! 

If,  by  the  wood-fire's  blaze, 

When  winter  stars  gleam  cold, 
The  glorious  tales  of  elder  days 

May  proudly  yet  be  told, 
Forget  not  then  the  shepherd  race, 
Who  made  the  hearth  a  holy  place ! 

Look  on  the  white  Alps  round! 

If  yet  the  Sabbath-bell 
Comes  o'er  them  with  a  gladdening  scuud, 

Think  on  the  battle  dell ! 
For  blood  first  bathed  its  flowery  sod, 
That  chainless  hearts  might  worship  God  ! 


•  250  ) 


THE  DIVER. 

THOU  hast  been  where  the  rocks  of  coral  grow 
Thou  hast  fought  with  eddying  waves  ; — 

Thy  cheek  is  pale,  and  thy  heart  beats  low, 
Thou  searcher  of  ocean's  caves  ! 

Thou  hast  look'd  on  the  gleaming  wealth  of  old 
And  wrecks  where  the  brave  have  striven  : 

The  deep  is  a  strong  and  fearful  hold, 
But  thou  its  bar  hast  riven  ! 

A  wild  and  weary  life  is  thine  : 

A  wasting  task  and  lone, 
Though  treasure-grots  for  thee  may  shin 

To  all  besides  unknown  ! 

A  weary  life  !  but  a  swift  decay 

Soon,  soon  shall  set  thee  free  ; 
Thou'rt  passing  fast  from  thy  toils  away, 

Thou  wrestler  with  the  sea ! 

In  thy  dim  eye,  on  thy  hollow  cheek, 

Well  are  the  death-signs  read — 
<'»o  !  for  the  pearl  in  its  cavern  seek, 

Ere  hope  and  power  be  fled  ! 

And  bright  in  beauty's  coronal 

That  glistening  gem  shall  be  : 
A  star  to  all  in  the  festive  hall — 

But  who  will  think  on  thee  ? 


(251; 

None ! — as  it  gleams  from  the  queen-like  head, 

Not  one  'midst  throngs  will  say, 
"A  life  hath  been  like  a  rain-drop  shed 

For  that  pale  quivering  ray." 

Woe  for  the  wealth  thus  dearly  bought ! 

— And  are  not  those  like  thee, 
Who  win  for  earth  the  gems  of  thought  ? 

O  wrestler  with  the  sea  ! 

^ 

Down  to  the  gulfs  of  the  soul  they  go 

Where  the  passion-fountains  burn, 
Gathering  the  jewels  far  below 
-  From  many  a  buried  urn  : 

Wringing  from  lava  veins  the  fire, 
That  o'er  bright  words  is  pour'd  ; 

Learning  deep  sounds,  to  make  the  lyre 
A  spirit  in  each  chord,. 

But,  oh  !  the  price  of  bitter  tears, 

Paid  for  the  lonely  power 
That  throws  at  last  o'er  desert  years, 

A  darkly  glorious  dower ! 

Like  flower  seeds,  by  the  wild  wind  spread, 

So  radiant  thoughts  are  strew'd  ; 
— The  soul  whence  those  high  gifts  are  shed, 

May  faint  in  solitude  ! 

And  who  will  think,  when  the  strain  is  sung 
Till  a  thousand  hearts  are  stirr'd. 

What  life-drops,  from  the  minstrel  wrung, 
Have  gush'd  with  every  word  ? 


(252) 

None,  none  ! — his  treasures  live  like  thine, 

He  strives  and  dies  like  thee  ; 
— Thou,  that  hast  been  to  the  pearl's  dark  shrine, 

O  wrestler  with  the  sea  ! 


LEAVE  ME  NOT  YET. 

LEAVE  me  not  yet — through  rosy  skies  from  far, 
But  now  the  song-birds  to  their  nests  return  ; 

The  quivering  image  of  the  first  pale  star 
On  the  dim  lake  scarce  yet  begins  to  burn  : 
Leave  me  not  yet ! 

Not  yet !  oh,  hark !  low  tones  from  hidden  streams, 
Piercing  the  shivery  leaves,  even  now  arise  ; 

Their  voices  mingle  not  with  daylight  dreams, 
They  are  of  vesper's  hymns  and  harmonies  • 
Leave  me  not  yet  ! 

My  thoughts  are  like  those  gentle  sounds,  dear 

love! 

By  day  shut  up  in  their  own  still  recess, 
They  wait  for  dews  on  earth,  for  stars  above. 
Then  to  breathe  out  their  soul  of  tenderness : 
Leave  me  not  yet ! 


(  253  ) 


THE  WRECK. 

ALL,  night  the  booming,  minute-gun, 

Had  peal'd  along  the  deep, 
And  mourn  fully  the  rising  sun 

Look'd  o'er  the  tide-worn  steep. 
A  barque  from  India's  coral  strand, 

Before  the  raging  blast, 
Had  veil'd  her  topsails  to  the  sand, 

And  bow'd  her  noble  mast. 

The  queenly  ship ! — brave  hearts  had  striven, 
And  true  ones  died  with  her  ! — 

We  saw  her  mighty  cable  riven, 
Like  floating  gossamer. 

We  saw  her  proud  flag  struck  that  morn, 
A  star  once  o'er  the  seas — 

Her  anchor  gone,  her  deck  uptorn — 

And  sadder  things  than  these  ! 

» 

We  saw  her  treasures  cast  away, — 

The  rocks  with  pearls  were  sown, 
And  strangely  sad,  the  ruby's  ray 

Flash'd  out  o'er  fretted  stone.     . 
And  gold  was  strewn  the  wei  sands  o'er, 

Like  ashes  by  a  breeze  ; 
And  gorgeous  robes — but  oh  !  that  shore 

Had  sadder  things  than  these  ! 
22 


(254) 

Wo  saw  the  strong  man  still  and  low, 

A  crush 'd  reed  thrown  aside  ; 
Yet,  by  that  rigid  lip  and  brow. 

Not  without  strife  he  died. 
And  near  him  on  the  sea-weed  lay — 

Till  then  we  had  not  wept — 
But  well  our  gushing  hearts  might  say 

That  there  a  mother  slept  ! 


For  her  pale  arms  a  babe  had  press'd 

With  such  a  wreathing  grasp, 
Billows  had  dasli'd  o'er  that  fond  breast, 

Yet  not  undone 'the  clasp. 
Her  very  tresses  had  been  flung 

To  wrap  the  fair  child's  form. 
Where  still  their  wet  long  streamers  hung 

All  tangled  by  the  storm. 

And  beautiful,  'midst  that  wild  scene, 

Gleam'd  up  the  boy's  dead  face 
Like  slumber's,  trustingly  serene, 

In  melancholy  grace. 
Deep  in  her  bosom  lay  his  head, 

With  half-shut  violet  eye — 
He  had  known  little  of  her  dread, 

Naught  of  her  agony  ! 

Oh  !  human  love,  whose  yearning  heart 
Through  all  things  vainly  true, 

So  stamps  upon  the  mortal  part 
Its  passionate  adieu — 


(  255  ) 

Surely  thou  hast  another  lot : 
There  is  some  home  for  thee, 

Where  thou  shall  rest,  rememb'ring  not 
The  moaning  of  the  sea  ! 


O  YE  VOICES  GONE. 

OH  !  ye  voices  gone, 
Sounds  of  oth«r  years, 

Hush  that  haunting  tone, 
Melt  me  not  to  tears ! 

All  around  forget, 

All  who  love  you  well, 
Yet,  sweet  voices,  yet 

O'er  my  soul  ye  swell. 

With  the  winds  of  spring, 
With  the  breath  of  flowers, 

Floating  back,  ye  bring 

Thoughts  of.vanish'd  hour* 

Hence  your  music  take, 
Oh  !  ye  voices  gone  . 

This  lone  heart  ye  make 
But  more  deeply  lone. 


,  250  ) 


THE  SOLDIER'S  DEATH-BED. 

I. IKE  THEE  TO  DIE,  THOU  SUN.' My  boyhood's 

dream 

Was  this ;  and  now  my  spirit,  with  thy  beam, 
Ebbs  from  a  field  of  victory  ! — yet  the  hour 
Bears  back  upon  me,  with  a  torrent's  power, 
Nature's  deep  longings  : — Oh !  for  some  kind  eye, 
Wherein  to  meet  love's  fervent  farewell  gaze  ; 
Some  breast  to  pillow  life's  last  agony, 
Some  voice,  to  speak  of  hope  and  brighter  days, 
Beyond  the  pass  of  shadows ! — But  I  go, 
I,  that  have  been  so  loved,  go  hence  alone  ; 
And  ye,  now  gathering  round  my  own  hearth's 

glow, 

Sweet  friends !  it  may  be  that  a  softer  tone, 
Even  in  this  moment,  with  your  laughing  glee, 
Mingles  its  cadence  while  you  speak  of  me : 
Of  me,  your  soldier,  'midst  the  mountains  lying, 
On  the  red  banner  of  his  battles  dying, 
Far,  far  away ! — and  oh !  your  parting  prayer — 
Will  not  his  name  be  fondly  murmur 'd  there  ? 
Jt  will ! — A  blessing  on  that  holy  hearth  ? 
Though    clouds  are  darkening    to    o'ercast    its 

mirth. 

Mother !  I  may  not  hear  thy  voice  again  ; 
Sisters  !  ye  watch  to  greet  my  step  in  vain  ; 
Young  brother,  fare  thee  well ! — on  each  deal 

head 
Blessing  and  love  a  thousand  fold  be  shed, 


^257) 

My  soul's   last  earthly  breathings ! — May  your 

home 

Smile  for  you  ever ! — May  no  winter  come, 
No  world  between  your  hearts  ! — May  even  your 

tears, 

For  mv  sake,  full  of  long-remember 'd  years, 
Quicken  ^:e  true  affections  that  entwine 
Your  lives  in  one  bright  bond  ! — I  may  not  sleep 
Amidst    our    fathers,   where  those  tears  might 

shine 

Over  my  slumbers :  yet  your  love  will  keep 
My  memory  living  in  the  ancestral  halls, 
Where  shame  hath  never  trod  : — the  dark  night 

falls, 

And  I  depart. — The  brave  are  gone  to  rest, 
The  brothers  of  my  combats,  on  the  breast 
Of  the  red  field  they  reap'd  : — their  work  is 

done — 

Thou,  too,  art  set ! — farewell,  farewell,  thou  sun ! 
The  last  lone  watcher  of  the  bloody  sod, 
Offers  a  trusting  spirit  up  to  God. 


THE  BIRD  AT  SEA. 

BIRD  of  the  greenwood  ! 

O!   why  art  thou  here? 
Leaves  dance  not  o'er  thee, 

Flowers  bloom  not  near. 

22* 


(258) 

Ail  the  sweet  waters 
Far  hence  are  at  play — 

Bird  of  the  greenwood  ! 
Away,  away ! 

Where  the  mast  quivers, 

Thy  place  will  not  be, 
As  'midst  the  waving 

Of  wild  rose  and  tree. 
How  shonld'st  thou  battle 

With  storm  and  with  spray  1? 
Bird  of  the  greenwood  ! 

Away,  away ! 

Or  art  thou  seeking 

Some  brighter  land, 
Where  by  the  south  wind 

Vine  leaves  are  fann'd  ? 
'Midst  the  wild  billows 

Why  then  delay? 
Bird  of  the  greenwood  ! 

Away,  away ! 

"  Chide  not  my  lingering 

Where  storms  are  dark  ; 
A  hand  that  hath  nursed  me 

Is  in  the  bark  ; 
A  heart  that  hath  cherish'd 

Through  winter's  long  day, 
So  I  turn  from  the  greenwood. 

Away,  away ! 


(259) 


THE  DESERTED  HOUSE. 

GLOOM  is  upon  thy  silent  hearth, 

0  silent  house  !  once  fill'd  with  mirth  ; 
Sorrow  is  in  the  breezy  sound 

Of  thy  tall  poplars  whispering  round. 

The  shadow  of  departed  hours 
Hangs  dim  upon  thy  early  flowers ; 
Even  in  thy  sunshine  seems  to  brood 
Something  more  deep  than  solitude. 

Fair  art  thou,  fair  to  a  stranger's  gaze, 
Mine  own  sweet  home  of  other  days ! 
My  children's  birth-place  !  yet  for  me, 
It  is  too  much  to  look  on  thee. 

Too  much !  for,  all  about  thee  spread, 

1  feel  the  memory  of  the  dead, 
And  almost  linger  for  the  feet 

That  never  more,  my  step  shall  meet. 

The  looks,  the  smiles,  all  vanish'd  now, 
Follow  me  where  thy  roses  blow ; 
The  echoes  of  kind  household  words 
Are  with  me  'midst  thy  singing  birds. 

Till  my  heart  dies,  it  dies  away 
In  yearnings  for  what  might  not  stay ; 
For  love  which  ne'er  deceived  my  trust, 
For  all  which  went  with  "dust  to  dust." 


(260) 

What  now  is  left  me,  but  to  raise 
From  thee,  lorn  spot !  my  spirit's  gaze, 
To  lift  through  tears  my  straining  eye 
Up  to  my  Father's  house  on  high  ? 

Oh  !  many  are  the  mansions  there, 
But  not  in  one  hath  grief  a  share ! 
No  haunting  shade  from  things  gone  by, 
May  there  o'ers\veep  the  unchanging  sky. 

And  they  are  there,  whose  long-loved  mien 
In  earthly  home  no  more  is  seen  ; 
Whose  places,  where  they  smiling  sate, 
Are  left  unto  us  desolate. 

We  miss  them  when  the  board  is  spread ; 
We  miss  them  when  the  prayer  is  said  ; 
Upon  our  dreams  their  dying  eyes 
In  still  and  mournful  fondness  rose. 

But  they  are  where  these  longings  vain 
Trouble  no  more  the  heart  and  brain  ; 
The  sadness  of  this  aching  love 
Dims  not  our  Father's  house  above. 

Ye  are  at  rest,  and  I  in  tears, 
Ye  dwellers  of  immortal  spheres! 
Under  the  poplar  boughs  I  stand, 
And  mourn  the  broken  household  band. 

But  by  your  life  of  lowly  faith, 
And  by  your  joyful  hope  in  death, 
Guide  me,  till  on  some  brighter  shore, 
The  sever'd  wreath  is  bound  once  more  I 


(261) 

Holy  ye  were,  and  good,  and  true ! 
No  change  can  cloud  niy  thoughts  of  you 
Guide  me  like  you  to  live  and  die, 
And  reach  my  Father's  house  on  high  ! 


CORINNA  AT  THE  CAPITOL. 

DAUGHTER  of  th'  Italian  heaven  ! 
Thou,  to  whom  its  fires  are  given, 
Joyously  thy  car  hath  roll'd 
Where  the  conqueror's  pass'd  of  old  ; 
And  the  festal  sun  that  shone, 
O'er  three  hundred  triumphs  gone, 
Makes  thy  day  of  glory  bright 
With  a  shower  of  golden  light. 

Now  thou  tread'st  th'  ascending  road, 
Freedom's  foot  so  proudly  trode  ; 
While,  from  tombs  of  heroes  borne. 
From  the  dust  of  empire  shorn, 
Flowers  upon  thy  graceful  head, 
Chaplets  of  all  hues,  are  shed, 
In  a  soft  and  rosy  train, 
Touch'd  with  many  a  gem-like  stain. 
Thou  hast  gain'd  the  summit  now ! 
Music  hails  thee  from  below  ; 
Music,  whose  rich  notes  might  stir 
Ashes  of  the  senulchre  ; 


( 262 ) 

Shaking  with  victorious  notes 
All  the  bright  air  as  it  floats. 
Well  may  woman's  heart  beat  high 
Unto  that  proud  harmony  ! 


Now  afar  it  rolls — it  dies — 
And  thy  voice  is  heard  to  rise 
With  a  low  and  lovely  tone 
In  its  thrilling  power  alone  ; 
And  thy  lyre's  deep  silvery  string, 
Touch'd  as  by  a  breeze's  wing, 
Murmurs  tremblingly  at  first, 
Ere  the  tide  of  rapture  burst. 

All  the  spirit  of  thy  sky 
Now  hath  lit  thy  large  dark  eye, 
And  thy  cheek  a  flush  hath  caught 
From  the  joy  of  kindled  thought  ; 
And  the  burning  words  of  song 
From  thy  lip  flow  fast  and  strong, 
With  a  rushing  stream's  delight 
In  the  freedom  of  its  might. 

Radiant  daughter  of  the  sun ! 
Now  thy  living  wreath  is  won. 
Crown'd  of  Rome  ! — Oh  !  art  thou  not 
Happy  in  that  glorious  lot  ? — 
Happier,  happier  far  than  thou, 
With  the  laurel  on  thy  brow, 
She  that  makes  the  humblest  hearth 
Lonely  but  to  one  on  earrh  ! 


(263) 


THE  VOICE  OF  THE  WIND. 

OH  !  many  a  voice   is  thine,  thou  Wind  !  full 

many  a  voice  is  thine, 
From  every  scene  thy  wing  o'ersweeps   thou 

bear'st  a  sound  and  sign ; 
A   minstrel  wild  and  strong  thou  art,  with  a 

mastery  all  thine  own, 
And  the  spirit  is  thy  harp,  O  Wind !  that  gives 

the  answering  tone. 

Thou  hast  been  across  red  fields  of  war,  where 

shiver'd  helmets  lie, 
And  thou  bringest  thence  the  thrilling  note  of  a 

clarion  in  the  sky ; 
A  rustling   of    proud    banner-folds,   a  peal   of 

stormy  drums  ; 
All  these  are  in  thy  music  met,  as  when  a  leader 

comes. 

Thou  hast  been  o'er  solitary  seas,  and  from  their 

wastes  brought  back 
Each  noise  of  waters  that  awoke  in  the  mystery 

of  thy  track — 
The  chime  of  low  soft  southern  waves  on  some 

green  palmy  shore, 
The  hollow  roll  of  distant  surge,  the  garner'd 

billows'  roar. 


(264) 

Thou  art  come  from  forests  dark  and  deep,  thou 

mighty  rushing  Wind ! 
And  thou  bearest  all  their  unisons  in  one  full 

swell  combined ; 
The    restless   pines,    the    moaning    stream,    all 

hidden  things  and  free, 
Of  the  dim  old  sounding  wilderness,  have  lent 

their  soul  to  thee. 


Thou  art  come  from  cities  lighted  up  for  the 

conqueror  passing  by, 
Thou  art  wafting  from  their  streets  a  sound  of 

haughty  revelry  ; 
The  rolling  of  triumphant  wheels,  the  harpings 

in  the  hall, 
The  far-off  shout  of  multitudes,  are  in  thy  rise 

and  fall. 


Thou  art  come  from  kingly  tombs  and  shrines 

from  ancient  minsters  vast, 
Through  the  dark  aisles  of  a  thousand  years  thy 

lonely  wing  hath  pass'd  ; 
Thou  hast  caught  the  anthem's  billowy  swell, 

and  the  stately  dirge's  tone, 
For  a  chief,  with  sword,  and  shield,  and  he '.'in, 

to  his  place  of  slumber  gone. 

Thou  art  come  from  long-forsaken  homes, 
wherein  our  young  days  flew, 

Thou  hast  found  sweet  voices  lingering  there, 
the  1  wed,  the  kind,  the  true  ; 


(  263  ) 

Thou  callest  back  those  melodies,  though  now 

all  changed  and  fled — 
Re  still,  be  still,  and  haunt  us  not  with  music 

from  the  dead ! 

Are  all  these   notes  in  thee,  wild  Wind ?  these 

many  notes  in  thee  ? 
Far  in  our  own  unfathom'd  souls  their  fount 

must  surely  be  ; 
Yes  !    buried,    but    unsleeping,    there    thought 

watches,  memory  lies, 
Prom    whose   deep   urn    the    tones   are    pour'd 

through  all  earth's  harmonies. 


THE  DEATH  DAY  OF  KORNER. 

A  SONG  for  the  death  day  of  the  brave — 

A  song  of  pride  ! 
The  youth  went  down  to  a  hero's  grave, 

With  the  Sword,  his  bride. 

He  went,  with  his  noble  heart  unworn, 

And  pure,  and  high  ; 
An  eagle  stooping  from  clouds  of  niorr. 

Only  to  die. 

He  went  with  the  lyre,  whose  lofty  tone 

Beneath  his  hand 
Had  thrill'd  to  the  name  of  his  God  alone, 

And  his  father-land. 
23 


( 266 ) 

And  with  all  his  glorious  feelings  yet 

In  their  first  glow, 
Like  a  southern  stream  that  no  frost  hath  met 

To  chain  its  flow. 

A  song  for  the  death  day  of  the  brave — 

A  song  of  pride  ! 
For  him  that  went  to  a  hero's  grave, 

With  the  Sword,  his  bride. 

He  hath  left  a  voice  in  his  trumpet  lays 

To  turn  the  flight, 
And  a  guiding  spirit  for  after  days, 

Like  a  watchfire's  light. 

And  a  grief  in  his  father's  soul  to  rest, 

'Midst  all  high  thought ; 
And  a  memory  unto  his  mother's  breast 

With  healing  fraught. 

And  a  name  and  fame  above  the  blight 

Of  earthly  breath, 
Beautiful — beautiful  and  bright, 

In  life  and  death  ! 

A  song  for  the  death  day  of  the  brave — 

A  song  of  pride  ! 
For  him  that  went  to  a  hero's  grave 

With  the  Sword,  his  bride ! 


(267) 


THE  LAST  WISH. 

Go  to  the  foiest  shade, 

Seek  thou  the  well  known  glade, 

Where,  heavy  with  sweet  dew,  the  violets  lie, 
Gleaming  through  moss-tufts  keep, 
Like  dark  eyes  fill'd  with  sleep, 

And  bathed  in  hues  of  Summer's  midnight  sky, 

Bring  me  their  buds,  to  shed 

Around  my  dying  bed 
A  breath  of  May  and  of  the  wood's  repose ; 

For  I,  in  sooth,  depart 

With  a  reluctant  heart, 
That  fain  would  linger  where  the  bright  sun  glows. 

Fain  would  I  stay  with  thee — 

Alas  !  this  may  not  be  ; 
Yet  bring  me  still  the  gifts  of  happier  hours ! 

Go  where  the  fountain's  breast 

Catches,  in  glassy  rest,  [bowers. 

The  dim  green  light  that  pours  through  lam  el 

I  know  how  softly  bright, 

Steep'd  in  that  tender  light, 
The  water-lilies  tremble  there  e'en  now  ; 

Go  to  the  pure  stream's  edge, 

And  from  its  whisp'ring  sedge 
Bring  me  those  flowers  to  cool  my  fever'd  brow  ! 


(268) 

Then,  as  in  Hope's  young  cLys, 
Track  thou  the  antique  maze 

Of  the  rich  garden  to  its  grassy  mound ; 
There  is  a  lone  white  rose, 
Shedding  in  sudden  snows, 

Its  faint  leaves  o'er  the  emerald  turf  around. 


Well  know'st  thou  that  fair  tree — 

A  murmur  of  the  bee 
Dwells  ever  in  the  honey'd  lime  above ; 

Bring  me  one  pearly  flower 

Of  all  its  clustering  shower — 
For  on  that  spot  we  first  reveal'd  our  love. 

Gather  one  woodbine  bough, 

Then,  from  the  lattice  low 
Of  the  bower'd  cottage  which  I  bade  thee  mark, 

When  by  the  hamlet  last, 

Through  dim  wood  lanes  we  pass'd, 
While  dews  were  glancing  to  the  glow  worm's 
spark. 

Haste  !  to  my  pillow  bear 
Those  fragrant  things  and  fair  ; 

My  hand  no  more  may  bind  them  up  at  eve — 
Yet  shall  their  odor  soft 
One  bright  dream  round  me  waft 

Of  life  youth,  summer — all  that  I  must  leave ! 

And,  oh !  if  thou  would'st  ask 
Wherefore  thy  steps  I  task. 


( 269 ) 

The  grove,  the  stream",  the  hamlet  vale  to  trace- 
'Tis  that  some  thought  of  me, 
When  I  am  gone,  may  be 

The  spirit  bound  to  each  familiar  place. 

I  bid  mine  image  dwell 

(Oh  !  break  not  thou  the 'spell !) 
In  the  deep  wood  and  by  the  fountain  side 

Thou  must  not,  my  beloved ! 

Rove  where  we  two  have  roved, 
Forgetting  her  that  in  her  Spring-time  died  ! 


THE  PALMER. 

ART  thou  come  from  the  far-off  land  at  last  ? 

Thou  hast  wander'd  long  !  [pass'd 

Thou  art  come  to  a  home  whence  the  smile  hath 

With  the  merry  voice  of  song. 

For  the  sunny  glance  and  the  bounding  heart 
Thou  wilt  seek — but  all  are  gone  ; 

They  are  parted  e'en  as  waters  part, 
To  meet  in  the  deep  alone ! 

And  thou — from  thy  lip  is  fled  the  glow, 
From  thine  eye  the  light  of  morn  ; 

And  the  shades  of  thought  o'erhang  thy  brow 
And  thy  cheek  with  life  is  worn. 


(  270  ) 

Say  what  hast  them  brought  from  the  distant  shore 

For  thy  wasted  youth  to  pay  ? 
Hast  thou  treasure  to  win  thee  joys  once  more  ? 

Hast  thbu  vassals  to  smooth  thy  way  ? 

"  I  have  brought  but  the  palm-branch  in  my  hand, 
Yet  I  call  not  my  bright  youth  lost ! 

t  have  won  but  high  thought  in  the  Holy  Land, 
Yet  I  count  not  too  dear  the  cost ! 

"  I  look  on  the  leaves  of  the  deathless  tree — 

These  records  of  my  track  ; 
And  better  than  youth  in  its  flush  of  glee, 

Are  the  memories  they  give  me  back  ! 

"  They  speak  of  toil,  and  of  high  emprise, 

As  in  words  of  solemn  cheer, 
They  speak  of  lonely  victories 

O'er  pain,  and  doubt,  and  fear. 

"  They  speak  of  scenes  which  have  now  become 

Bright  pictures  in  my  breast ; 
Where  my  spirit  finds  a  glorious  home, 

And  the  love  of  my  heart  can  rest. 

"  The  colors  pass  not  from  these  away, 

Like  tints  of  shower  or  sun  ; 
Oh !  beyond  all  treasures  that  know  decay, 

Is  the  wealth  my  soul  hath  won ! 

"  A  rich  light  thence  o'er  my  life's  decline, 

An  inborn  light  is  cast ; 
For  the  sake  of  the  palm  from  the  holy  shrine, 

I  bewail  not  my  bright  days  past !  " 


THE  SULIOTE  MOTHER. 

SHE  stood  upon  the  loftiest  peak, 

Amidst  the  clear  blue  sky : 
A  bitter  smile  was  on  her  cheek, 

And  a  dark  flash  in  her  eye. 

»  Dost  thou  see  them,  boy  ? — through  the  dusky 

pines 

Dost  thou  see  where  the  foeman's  armor  shines  ? 
Hast  thou  caught  the  gleam  of  the  conqueror's 

crest  ? 

My  babe,  that  I  cradled  on  my  breast ! 
Wouldst  thou  spring    from    thy  mother's  arms 

with  joy  ? 
— That  sight  hath  cost  thee  a  father,  boy !  " 

For  in  the  rocky  strait  beneath, 

Lay  Suliote  sire  and  son  : 
They  had  heap'd  high  the  piles  of  death 

Before  the  pass  was  won. 

"  They  have  cross'd  the  torrent,  and  on  tlip.y 

come  ! 

Woe  for  the  mountain  hearth  and  home  ! 
There,  where  the  hunter  laid  by  his  spear, 
There,  where  the  lyre  hath  been  sweet  to  hear, 
There,  where  I  sang  thee,  fair  babe !  to  sleep, 
Naught    but    the   blood-stain    our    trace    shall 

keep  !  " 


And  now  the  hoin's  loud  blast  was  heard, 
And  now  the  cymbal's  clang, 

Till  even  the  upper  air  was  stirr'd, 
As  cliff  and  hollow  rang. 

11  Hark  !  they  bring  music,  my  joyous  child  ' 
What  saith  the  trumpet  to  Suli's  wild  ! 
Doth  it  light  thine  eye  with  so  quick  a  lire, 
As  if  at  a  glance  of  thine  armed  sire  ? — 
Still ! — be  thou  still ! — there  are  brave  men  low — 
Thou  wouldst  not  smile  couldst  thou  see  him  now ! 

But  nearer  came  the  clash  of  steel, 

And  louder  swell 'd- the  horn, 
And  farther  yet  the  tambour's  peal 

Through  the  dark  pass  was  borne. 

"  Hear'st  thou  the  sound  of  their  savage  mirth  ? — 
Boy!  thou  wert  free  when  I  gave  thee  birth, — 
Free,  and  how  cherish 'd,  my  warrior's  son ! 
He  too  hath  bless'd  thee,  as  I  have  done  ! 
Aye,  and  unchain'd  must  his  loved  ones  be — 
Freedom,  young  Suliote  !  for  thee  and  me '. '' 

And  from  the  arrowy  peak  she  sprung 
And  fast  the  fair  child  bore  : — 

A  veil  upon  the  wind  was  flung, 
A  cry — and  all  was  o'er ! 


(273) 


THE  LOST  PLEIAD. 

AND  is  there  glory  from  the  heavens  departed  ? 

O  void  unmark'd  ! — thy  sisters  of  the  sky 

Still  hold  their  place  on  high,  [started, 

Though  from  its  rank  thine  orb  so  long  hath 

Thou,  that  no  more  art  seen  of  mortal  eye ! 

Hath  the  night  lost  a  gem,  the  regal  night  ? 

She  wears  her  crown  of  old  magnificence, 

Though  thou  art  exiled  thence — 
No  desert  seems  to  part  those  urns  of  light, 

'Midst  the  far  depths  of  purple  gloom  intense. 

They  rise  in  joy,  the  starry  myriads  burning — 
The  shepherd  greets  them  on  his  mountains 
And  from  the  silvery  sea  [free  ; 

To  them  the  sailor's  wakeful  eye  is  turning — 
Unchanged  they  rise,  they  have  not  mourned 
for  thee. 

Couldst  thou  be  shaken  from  thy  radiant  place, 
Even  as  a  dew-drop  from  the  myrtle  spray, 
Swept  by  the  wind  away  ? 

Wert  thou  not  peopled  by  some  glorious  race, 
And  was  there  power  to  smite  them  with  decay  ? 

Why,  who  shall  talk  of  thrones,  of  sceptres  riven  ? 

Bow'd  be  our  hearts  to  think  on  what  we  are, 

When  from  its  height  afar 
A  world  sinks  thus — and  yon  majestic  heaven 

Shines  not  the  less  for  that  one  vanish'd  star  t 


274) 


GERTRUDE;  OR,  FIDELITY  TILL 
DEATH. 

HER  hands  were  clasp'd,  her  dark  eyes  raised, 

The  breeze  threw  back  her  hair  ; 
Up  to  the  fearful  wheel  she  gazed — 

All  that  she  lovec!  was  there. 
The  night  was  round  her  clear  and  cold, 

The  holy  heaven  above, 
Its  pale  stars  watching  to  behold 

The  might  of  earthly  love. 

"And  bid  me  not  depart,"  she  cried, 

"  My  Rudolph,  say  not  so  ! 
This  is  no  time  to  quit  thy  side, 

Peace,  peace  !     1  cannot  go. 
Hath  the  world  aught  for  me  to  fear, 

When  death  is  on  thy  brow  ? 
The  world !  what  means  it  ? — mine  is  here — 

I  will  not  leave  thee  now. 

"  I  have  been  with  thee  in  thine  hour 

Of  glory  and  of  bliss  ; 
Doubt  not  its  memory's  living  power 

To  strengthen  me  through  this ! 
And  thou  mine  honor'd  love  and  true, 

Bear  on,  bear  nobly  on, 
We  have  the  bless'd  heaven  in  view, 

Whose  rest  shall  soon  be  won." 


And  were  not  these  high  words  to  flow 

From  woman's  breaking  heart  ? 
Through  all  that  night  of  bitterest  woe, 

She  bore  her  lofty  part  ; 
But  oh  !  with  such  a  glazing  eye, 

With  such  a  curdling  cheek — 
Love,  love  !  of  mortal  agony, 

Thou,  only  thou  shouldst  speak  ! 


The  wind  rose  high. — but  with  it  rose 

Her  voice,  that  he  might  hear : 
Perchance  that  dark  hour  brought  repose 

To  happy  bosoms  near  ; 
While  she  sat  striving  with  despair 

Beside  his  tortured  forln, 
And  pouring  her  deep  soul  in  prayer 

Forth  on  the  rushing  storm. 

She  wiped  the  death-damps  from  his  brow, 

With  her  pale  hands  and  soft, 
Who.se  touch  upon  the  lute-chords  low, 

Had  still'd  his  heart  so  oft. 
She  spread  her  mantle  o'er  his  breast, 

She  bathed  his  lips  with  dew, 
And  on  his  cheek  such  kisses  press'd 

As  hope  and  joy  ne'er  knew. 

• 

Oh  !  lovely  are  ye,  Love  and  Faith, 

Enduring  to  the  last ! 
She  had  her  meed — one  smile  in  death — 

And  his  worn  spirit  pass'd. 


(276) 

While  e'en  as  o'er  a  martyr's  grave 

She  knelt  on  that  sad  spot, 
And,  weeping,  bless'd  the  God  who  gaye 

Strength  to  forsake  it  not ! 


ITALIAN  GIRL'S  HYMN  TO  THE 

VIRGIN. 

\ 

IN  the  deep  hour  of  dreams,  [sea, 

Through  the  dark  woods,  and  past  the  moaning 

And  by  the  star-light  gleams, 
Mother  of  Sorrows !  lo,  I  come  to  thee. 

Unto  thy  shrine -I  bear 
Night-blooming  flowers,  like  my  own  heart,  to  lie 

All,  all  unfolded  there, 
Beneath  the  meekness  of  thy  pitying  eye. 

For  thou,  that  once  didst  move, 
In  thy  still  beauty,  through  an  early  home, 

Thou  know'st  the  grief,  the  love, 
The  fear  of  woman's  soul ;  to  thee  I  come  ! 

Many,  and  sad,  and  deep, 
Were  the  thoughts  folded  in  thy  silent  breast ; 

Thou,  too,  couldst  watch  and  weep — 
Hear,  gentlest  mother !  hear  a  heart  oppress'd  ! 

There  is  a  wandering  bark 
Bearing  one  from  me  o'er  the  restless  waves  : 

Oh  !  let  thy  soft  eye  mark 
His  course  ;  be  with  him,  Holiest,  guide  and  save ' 


(277) 

My  soul  is  on  that  way ; 
My  thoughts  are  travellers  o'er  the  waters  dim, 

Through  the  long  weary  day, 
I  walk,  o'ershadow'd  by  vain  dreams  of  him. 

Aid  him,  and  me,  too,  aid  ! 
Oh  !  'tis  not  well,  this  earthly  love's  excess  ! 

On  thy  weak  child  is  laid 
The  burden  of  too  deep  a  tenderness. 

Too  much  o'er  him  is  pour'd 
My  being's  hope — scarce  leaving  Heaven  a  part ; 

Too  fearfully  adored, 
Oh !  make  not  him  the  chastener  of  my  heart ! 

I  tremble  with  a  sense 
Of  grief  to  be  ;  I  hear  a  warning  IOAV — 

Sweet  mother  !  call  me  hence  ! 
This  wild  idolatry  must  end  in  woe. 

The  troubled  joy  of  life, 
Love's  lightning  happiness,  my  soul  hath  known ; 

And,  worn  with  feverish  strife, 
Would  fold  its  wings  ; — take  back,  take  back 
thine  own. 

Hark  !  how  the  wind  swept  by  ! 
The  tempest's  voice  comes  rolling  o'er  the  wave-  - 

Hope  of  the  sailor's  eye, 
And  maiden's  heart,  blest  mother,  guide  and  save ! 

24 


THE  ADOPTED  CHILD. 

•  WHY  wouldst  thou  leave  me,  O  gentle  child  ? 
Thy  home  on  the  mountain  is  bleak  and  wild, 
A  straw-roof 'd  cabin,  with  lowly  wall — 
Mine  is  a  fair  and  a  pillar'd  hall, 
Where  many  an  image  of  marble  gleams, 
And  the  sunshine  of  pictures  forever  streams." 

'•'  Oh  !  green  is  the  turf  where  my  brothers  play. 
Through  the  long  bright  hours  of  the  summer 

day; 

They  find  the  red  cup-moss  where  they  climb, 
And  they  chase  the  bee  o'er  the  scented  thyme, 
And  the  rocks  where  the  heath-flower  blooms 

they  know — 
Lady,  kind  lady  !  O,  let  me  go." 

"  Content  thee,  boy !  in  my  bower  to  dwell, 
Here  are  sweet  sounds  which  thou  lovest  well ; 
Flutes  on  the  air  in  the  stilly  noon, 
Harps  which  the  wandering  breezes  tune, 
And  the  silvery  wood-note  of  many  a  bird, 
Whose  voice  was  ne'er  in  thy  mountains  heard.' 

"  Oh  !  my  mother  sings,  at  the  twilight's  fall, 
A  song  of  the  hills  far  more  sweet  than  all  ; 
She  sings  it  under  our  own  green  tree, 
To  the  babe  half  si  Limbering  on  her  knee  ; 
I  dreamt  last  night  of  that  music  low — 
Lady,  kind  lady !  O,  let  me  go." 


(  279  ) 

"  Thy  mother  is  gone  from  her  cares  to  rest, 
She  hath  taken  the  babe  on  her  quiet  breast  ; 
Thou  would'st  meet  her  footstep,  my  boy.  no 

more, 

Nor  hear  her  song  at  the  cabin  door. 
Come  thou  with  me  to  the  vineyards  nigh, 
And  we'll  pluck  the  grapes  of  the  richest  dye." 

"  Is  my  mother  gone  from  her  home  away  ? — 
But  I  know  that  my  brothers  are  there  at  play — 
1  know  they  are  gathering  the  foxglove's  bell, 
Or  the  long  fern  leaves  by  the  sparkling  well ; 
Or  they  launch  their   boats  where   the  bright 

streams  flow — 
Lady,  kind  lady !  O,  let  me  go." 

"  Fair  child,  thy  brothers  are  wanderers  now, 
They  sport  no  more  on  the  mountain's  brow  ; 
They  have  left  the  fern  by  the  spring's  green 

side, 
And   the    stream   where    the    fairy   barks  were 

tried. 

Be  thou  at  peace  in  thy  brighter  lot, 
For  thy  cabin  home  is  a  lonely  spot." 

"  Are  they  gone,  all  gone  from  the  sunny  hill  ? — 
But  the  bird  and  the  blue-fly  rove  o'er  it  still  : 
And  the  red  deer  bound  in  their  gladness  free, 
And  the  heath  is  bent  by  the  singing  bee, 
And  the  waters  leap,  and  the  fresh  winds  blow — 
Lady,  kind  lady!  O,  let  me  go." 


i  280) 


THE  TWO  MONUMENTS. 

BANNERS  hung  drooping  from  on  high 

In  a  dim  cathedral's  nave, 
Making  a  gorgeous  canopy 

O'er  a  noble,  noble  grave  ! 

And  a  marble  warrior's  form  beneath, 
With  helm  and  crest  array'd, 

As  on  his  battle  bed  of  death, 
Lay  in  then-  crimson  shade. 

Triumph  yet  linger'd  in  his  eye, 
Ere  by  the  dark  night  seal'd, 

And  his  head  was  pillow'd  haughtily 
On  standard  and  on  shield. 

And  shadowing  that  proud  trophy  pile 
With  the  glory  of  his  wing 

An  eagle  sat ; — yet  seem'd  the  while 
Panting  through  Heaven  to  spring. 

He  sat  upon  a  shiver'd  lance, 
There  by  the  sculptor  bound  ; 

But  in  the  light  of  his  lifted  glance 
Was  that  which  scorn'd  the  ground. 

And  a  burning  flood  of  gem-like  hues 
From  a  storied  window  pourd, 

There  fell,  there  centred,  to  suffuse 
The  conqueror  and  his  word. 


(281) 

A  flood  of  hues  ! — but  one  rich  dye 

O'er  all  supremely  spread, 
With  a  purple  robe  of  royalty 

Mantling  the  mighty  dead. 

Meet  Avas-that  robe  for  him  whose  name 

Was  a  trumpet  note  in  Avar, 
His  pathway  still  the  march  of  fame, 

His  eye  the  battle  star. 

But  faintly,  tenderly  was  thrown 
From  the  color'd  light  one  ray, 

Where  a  low  and  pale  memorial  stone 
By  the  couch  of  glory  lay. 

Few  were  the  fond  words  chisell'd  there, 

Mourning  for  parted  worth  ; 
But  the  very  heart  of  love  and  prayer 

Had  given  their  sweetness  forth. 

They  spoke  of  one  whose  life  had  been 
As  a  hidden  streamlet's  course, 

Bearing  on  health  and  joy  unseen, 
From  its  clear  mountain  source  : 

Whose  young  pure  memory,  lying  deep 
'Midst  rock,  and  wood,  and  hill, 

Dwelt  in  the  homes  where  poor  men  sleep, 
A  soft  light  meek  and  still  : 

Whose  gentle  voice  too  early  call'd 

Unto  Music's  land  away, 
Had  AVOU  for  God  the  earth's  enthrall'd 

By  Avords  of  silvery  s\vay. 
24* 


(  282  ) 

These  were  his  victories — yet  enroll'd 

In  no  high  song  of  fame, 
The  pastor  of  the  mountain-fold 

Left  but  to  Heaven  his  name. 

To  Heaven  and  to  the  peasant's  hearth. 

A  blessed  household  sound — 
And  finding  lowly  love  on  earth, 

Enough,  enough,  he  found ! 

Bright  and  more  bright  before  me  gleara'd 

That  sainted  image  still ; 
Till  one  sweet  moonlight  memory  seem'd 

The  regal  fane  to  fill. 

Oh  !  how  my  silent  spirit  turn'd 
From  those  proud  trophies  nigh  ; 

How  my  full  heart  within  me  burn'd 
Like  Him  to  live  and  die ! 


PASSING  AWAY 

IT  is  written  on  the  rose 

In  its  glory's  full  array — 
Read  what  those  buds  disclose — 

"  Passing  away." 

It  is  written  on  the  skies 

Of  the  soft  blue  summer  day  ; 
It  is  traced  in  sunset's  dyes — 

"  Passing  away." 


(283) 

It  is  written  on  the  trees, 

As  their  young  leaves  glistening  play, 
And  on  brighter  things  than  these — 

."Passing  away." 

It  is  written  on  the  brow 

Where  the  spirit's  ardent  ray 
Lives,  burns,  and  triumphs  now — 

"  Passing  away." 

It  is  written  on  the  heart — 

Alas  !  that  there  Decay 
Should  claim  from  Love  a  part — 

"  Passing  away." 
* 
Friends,  friends ! — oh !  shall  we  meet 

In  a  land  of  purer  day, 
Where  lovely  things  and  sweet 

Pass  not  away  ? 

Shall  we  know  each  other's  eyes, 

And  the  thoughts  that  in  them  lay, 
When  we  mingled  sympathies — 

"Passing  away?" 

Oh  !  if  this  may  be  so, 

Speed,  speed,  thou  closing  day! 
How  blest,  from  earth's  vain  show- 
To  pass  away ! 


( 284  ) 


THE  BETTER  LAND. 

li  I  UKAK  thee  speak  of  the  better  land, 
Thou  call'st  its  children  a  happy  band  ; 
Mother !  oh,  where  is  that  radiant  shore  ? 
Shall  we  riot  seek  it,  and  weep  no  more  ? 
Is  it  where  the  flower  of  the  orange  blows, 
And    the    fireflies   glance    through    the    myrtle 

boughs?  " 
— "  Not  there,  not  there,  my  child  !  "     '  • 

"  Is  it  where  the  feathery  palm  trees  rise, 
And  the  date  grows  ripe  under  sunny  skies  ? 
Or  'midst  the  green  islands  of  glittering  seas, 
Where  fragrant  forests  perfume  the  breeze, 
And  strange  bright  birds  on  their  starry  wings 
Bear  the  rich  hues  of  all  glorious  things  ? " 
— "  Not  there,  not  there,  my  child!  " 

"Is  it  far  away,  in  some  region  old, 
Where  the  rivers  wander  o'er  sands  of  gold  ? 
Where  the  burning  rays  of  the  ruby  shine, 
And  the  diamond  lights  up  the  secret  mine, 
And   the    pearl    gleams   forth    from    the    coral 

strand  ? — 

Is  it  there,  sweet  mother,  that  better  land  ?  " 
— "  Not  there,  not  there,  my  child  f  " 

t 

"  Eye  hath  not  seen  it,  my  gentle  boy ! 
Ear  hath  not  heard  its  deep  songs  of  joy ; 


(285, 

Dreams  cannot  picture  a  world  so  fair— - 
Sorrow  and  death  may  not  enter  there : 
Time  doth  not  breathe  on  its  fadeless  bloom, 
For  beyond  the  clouds  and  beyond  the  tornb, 
— "-It  is  there,  it  is  there,  my  child  !  " 


EVENING  SONG  OF  THE  WHARY 

FATHER  of  Heaven  and  Earth  ! 
I  bless  thee  for  the  night, 
The  soft,  still  night ! 
The  holy  pause  of  care  and  mirth, 
Of  sound  and  light ! 

Now  far  in  glade  and  dell, 
Flower-cup,  and  bud,  and  bell, 
Have  shut  around  the  sleeping  woodlark's  nest — 
The  bee's  long  murmuring  toils  are  done, 
And  I,  the  o'erwearied  one, 
O'erwearied  and  o'erwrought, 
Bless  thee,  O  God,  O  Father  of  the  oppress'd, 
With  my  last  waking  thought, 

In  the  still  night ! 

Yes,  ere  I  sink  to  rest, 

By  the  fire's  dying  light, 

Thou  Lord  of  Earth  and  Heaven ! 

I  bless  thee,  who  hast  given 
Unto  life's  fainting  travellers,  the  night, 

The  soft,  still.,  holy  night ! 


286) 


THE  STORM-PAINTER  IN  HIS 
DUNGEON. 

MIDNIGHT,  and  silence  deep  ! 

The  air  is  fill'd  with  sleep, 
With  the  stream's  whisper,  and  the  citron's  breath  j 

The  fix'd  and  solemn  stars 

Gleam  through  my  dungeon  bars — 
Wake,  rushing  winds  !    this   breezeless  calm  is 
death ! 

Ye  watch-fires  of  the  skies  ! 

The  stillness  of  your  eyes 
Looks  too  intensely  through  my  troubled  soul ; 

I  feel  this  weight  of  rest 

An  earth-load  on  my  breast — 
Wake,  rushing  winds,  awake !  and  dark  clouds 
roll  f 

I  am  your  own,  your  child, 

O  ye,  the  fierce,  the  wild, 
And  kingly  tempests! — will  ye  not  arise  "• 

Hear  the  bold  spirit's  voice, 

That  knows  not  to  rejoice 
Hut  in  the  peal  of  your  strong  harmonies. 

By  sounding  ocean-waves, 
And  dim  Calabrian  caves, 
And  flashing  torrents,  I  have  been  your  mate; 


(  287  ) 

And  with  the  rocking  pines 
Of  the  olden  Appenines, 
[n  your  dark  path  stood  fearless  and  elate  : 

Your  lightnings  were  as  rods, 

That  smote  the  deep  abodes  [free  , 

Of  thought  and  vision — and  the  stream  gush'd 
Come,  that  my  soul  again 
May  swell  to  burst  its  chain — 

Bring  me  the  music  of  the  sweeping  sea ! 

Within  me  dwells  a  flame, 

An  eagle  caged  and  tame, 
Till  call'd  forth  by  the  harping  of  the  blast, 

Then  is  its  triumph's  hour, 

It  springs  to  sudden  power 
As  mounts  the  billow  o'er  the  quivering  mast. 

Then,  then,  the  canvass  o'er, 

With  hurried  hand  I  pour 
The  lava- waves  and  guests  of  my  own  soul ! 

Kindling  to  fiery  life 

Dreams,  worlds,  of  pictured  strife — 
Wake,  rushing  winds,  awake  !  and,  dark  clouds, 
roll ! 

Wake,  rise  !  the  reed  may  bend, 

The  shivering  leaf  descend, 
The  forest  branch  give  way  before  your  might  ; 

But  I,  your  strong  compeer, 

Call,  summon,  wait  you  here — 
Answer,  my  spirit! — answer,  storm  and  night.! 


(288) 


THE  SONG  OF  NIGHT. 

I  COME  to  thee,  O  Earth ! 

With  all  my  gifts ! — for  every  flower  sweet  dew 
In  bell,  and  urn,  and  chalice,  to  renew 

The  glory  of  its  birth. 

Not  one  which  glimmering  lies 
Far  amidst  folding  hills,  or  forest  leaves, 
But,  through  its  veins  of  beauty,  so  receives 

A  spirit  of  fresh  dyes. 

I  come  with  every  star  ; 

Making  thy  streams,  that  on  their  noonday  track, 
Give  but  the  moss,  the  reed,  the  lily  back, 

Mirrors  of  worlds  afar. 

I  come  with  peace  : — I  shed 
Sleep  through  thy  wood- walks,  o'er  the  honey 

bee, 
The  lark's  triumphant  voice,  the  fawn's  young 

glAA 
ICC, 

The  hyacinth's  meek  head. 

On  my  own  heart  I  lay 
The  weary  babe  ;  and  sealing  with  a  breath 
Its  eyes  of  love,  send  fairy  dreams,  beneath 

The  shadowing  lids  to  play. 

I  come  with  mightier  things ! 
Who  calls  me  silent  ?  I  have  many  tones — 
The  dark  skies  thrill  with  low  mysterious  moans, 

Borne  on  my  sweeping  wings. 


(289) 

I  waft  them  not  alone 
Frjm  the  deep  organ  of  the  forest  shades, 
Or  buried  streams,  unheard  amidst  their  glades, 

Till  the  bright  day  is  done  ; 

But  in  the  human  breast 
A  thousand  still  small  voices  I  awake, 
Strong,  in  their  sweetness,  from  the  soul  to  shake 

The  mantle  of  its  rest. 

I  bring  them  from  the  past : 
From  true  hearts  broken,  gentle  spirits  torn, 
From   crush'd   affections,   which,   though   long 
o'erborne, 

Make  their  tones  heard  at  last. 

I  bring  them  from  the  tomb  : 
O'er  the  sad  couch  of  late  repentant  love 
They  pass — though  low  as  murmurs  of  a  dove — 

Like  trumpets  through  the  gloom. 

I  come  with  all  my  train  ; 

Who  calls  me  lonely  ? — Hosts  around  me  tread, 
The  intensely  bright,  the  beautiful,  the  dead — 

Phantoms  of  heart  and  brain ! 

Looks  from  departed  eyes — 
These  are  my  lightnings !  fill'd  with  anguish  vain, 
Or  tenderness  too  piercing  to  sustain, 

They  smite  with  agonies. 

I.  that  with  soft  control, 

Shut  the  dim  violet,  hush  the  woodland  song, 
I  am  the  avenging  one  ! — the  arm'd,  the  strong — 

The  searcher  of  the  soul ! 
25 


I,  that  shower  dewy  light 
Through  slumbering  leaves,  bring  storms ! — the 

tempest-birth 
Of  memory,  thought,  remorse  : — Be  holy,  Earth  ! 

I  am  the  solemn  Night ! 


PARTING  WORDS. 

LEAVE  me,  oh  !  leave  me  ! — unto  all  below 
Thy  presence  binds  me  with  too  deep  a  spell : 
Thou  makest  those  mortal  regions,  whence  I  go, 
Too  mighty  in  their  loveliness — farewell, 
That  I  may  part  in  peace  ! 

Leave  me ! — thy  footstep,  with  its  lightest  sound, 
The  very  shadow  of  thy  waving  hair, 
Wakes  in  my  soul  a  feeling  too  profound, 
Too  strong  for  aught  that  loves  and  dies,  to  bear — 
Oh  !  bid  the  conflict  cease  ! 

I  hear  thy  whisper — and  the  warm  tears  gush 
Into  mine  eyes,  the  quick  pulse  thrills  my  heart ; 
Thou  bid'st  the  peace,  the  reverential  hush, 
The  still  submission,  from  my  thoughts  depart ; 
Dear  one  !  this  must  not  be. 

The  past  looks  on  me  from  thy  mournful  eye, 
The  beauty  of  our  free  and  vernal  days  ; 
Our  communings  with  sea,  and  hill,  and  sky— 
Oil !  take  that  bright  world  from  my  spirit's  gaze-! 
Thou  art  all  earth  to  me  ! 


(291) 

Shut  out  the  sunshine  from  my  dying  room, 
The  jasmine's  breath,  the  murmur  of  the  bee  ; 
Let  not  the  joy  of  bird-notes  pierce  the  gloom  ! 
They  speak  of  love,  of  summer,  and  of  thee, 
Too  much — and  death  is  here  ! 

Doth  our  own  spring  make  happy  musio  now, 
From  the  old  beach-roots  flashing  into  day  ? 
Are  the  pure  lilies  imaged  in  its  flow  ? 
Alas !  vain  thoughts !  that  fondly  thus  can  stiay 
From  the  dread  hour  so  near ! 

[f  I  could  but  draw  courage  from  the  light 
Of  thy  clear  eye,  that  ever  shone  to  bless ! 
— Not  now  !  'twill  not  be  now  ! — my  aching  sight 
Drinks  from  that  fount  a  flood  of  tenderness, 
Bearing  all  strength  away  ! 

Leave  me !  thou  comest  between  my  heart  and 

Heaven  ! 

I  would  be  still,  in  voiceless  prayer  to  die ! 
— Why  must  our  souls  thus  love,  and  then  be 

riven  ? 

Retnrn  !  thy  parting  wakes  mine  agony  ! 
— Oh,  yet  awhile  delay  ! 


IF  THOU  HAST  CRUSH'D  A  FLOWER. 

IF  thou  hast  crnsh'd  a  flower, 
The  root  may  not  be  blighted  ; 

If  thou  hast  quench'd  a  lamp, 
Once  more  it  may  be  lighted  • 


(  292  ) 

But  on  thy  harp  or  on  thy  lute, 

The  string  which  thou  hast  broken, 

Shall  never  in  sweet  sound  again 
Give  to  thy  touch  a  token  ! 

If  thou  hast  loosed  a  bird 

Whose  voice  of  song  could  cheer  thee, 
Still,  still  he  may  be  won 

From  the  skies  to  warble  near  thee  : 
But  if  upon  the  troubled  sea 

Thou  hast  thrown  a  gem  unheeded, 
Hope  not  that  wind  or  wave  will  bring 

The  treasure  back  when  needed. 

If  thou  hast  bruised  a  vine, 

The  summer's  breath  is  healing, 
And  its  clusters  yet  may  glow 

Through  the  leaves  their  bloom  revealing  ; 
But  if  thou  hast  a  cup  o'erthrown 

With  a  bright  draught  fill'd — oh  !  never 
Shall  earth  give  back  that  lavish'd  wealth 

To  cool  thy  parch'd  lips'  fever  ! 

The  heart  is  like  that  cup, 

If  tkou  waste  the  love  it  bore  thee; 
And  like  that  jewel  gone, 

Which  the  deep  will  not  restore  Chee  ; 
And  like  that  string  of  harp  or  lute 

Whence  the  sweet  sound  is  scatter'd,- 
Gently,  oh  !  gently  touch  the  chords. 

So  soon  forever  shatter'd. 


293) 


LET  US  DEPART. 

NIGHT  hung  on  Salem's  towers, 

And  a  brooding  hush  profound 
Lay  where  the  Roman  eagle  shone, 

High  o'er  the  tents  around. 
The  tents  that  rose  by  thousands, 

In  the  moonlight  glimmering  pale  ; 
Like  white  waves  of  a  frozen  sea, 

Filling  an  Alpine  vale. 
And  the  temple's  massy  shadow 

Fell  broad,  and  dark,  and  still, 
In  peace,  as  if  the  Holy  One 

Yet  vvatch'd  his  chosen  hill. 
But  a  fearful  sound  was  heard 

In  that  old  fane's  deepest  heart, 
As  if  mighty  wings  rush'd  by, 

And  a  dread  voice  raised  the  cry, 
"  Let  us  depart !  " 

Within  the  fated  city 

E'en  t'len  fierce  discord  raved, 
Though  o'er  night's  heaven  the  comet  swon] 

Its  vengeful  token  waved. 
There  were  shouts  of  kindred  warfare 

Through  the  dark  streets  ringing  high, 
Though  every  sign  was  full  which  told 

Of  the  bloody  vintage  nigh. 
25* 


(294) 

Though  the  wild  red  spears  and  arrows 

Of  many  a  meteor  host, 
Went  flashing  o'er  the  holy  stars, 

In  the  sky  now  seen,  now  lost. 
And  that  fearful  sound  was  heard 

(n  the  temple's  deepest  heart, 
As  if  mighty  wings  rush'd  by, 

And  a  voice  cried  mournfully, 
"  Let  us  depart !  " 

But  within  the  fated  city 

There  was  revelry  that  night ; 
The  wine-cup  and  the  timbrel  note. 

And  the  blaze  of  banquet  light. 
The  footsteps  of  the  dancer 

Went  bounding  through  the  hall, 
And  the  music  of  the  dulcimer 

Summon'd  to  festival. 
While  the  clash  of  brother  weapons 

Made  lightning  in  the  air, 
And  tl  e  dying  at  the  palace  gates 

Lay  down  in  their  despair. 
And  <  lat  fearful  sound  was  heard 

At  the  Temple's  thrilling  heart, 
As  if  mighty  Avings  rush'd  by, 

And  a  dread  voice  raised  the  cry, 
"  LET  us  DEPART  !  " 


(295) 


THE  SUNBEAM. 

THOU  art  no  lingerer  in  monarch's  hall — 
A  joy  ihou  art,  and  a  wealth  to  all ! 
A  bearer  of  hope  unto  land  and  sea — 
Sunbeam  !  what  gift  hath  the  world  like  thee  \ 

Thou  art  walking  the  billows,  and  ocean  smiles ; 
Thou  hast  touch'd  with  glory  his  thousand  isles; 
Thou  hast  lit  up  the  ships,  and  the  feathery  foam, 
And  gladden'd  the  sailor,  like  words  from  home. 

To  the  solemn  depths  of  the  forest  shades, 
Thou    art    streaming    on    through   their    green 

arcades  ; 
And  the  quivering  leaves  that  have  caught  thy 

glow,  ' 
Like  fireflies  glance  to  the  pools  below. 

I  look'd  on  the  mountains — a  vapor  lay 
Folding  their  heights  in  its  dark  array  : 
Thou  brakest  forth,  and  the  mist  became 
A  crown  and  a  mantle  of  living  flame. 

I  look'd  on  the  peasant's  lowly  cot — 
Something  of  sadness  had  wrapt  the  spot ; 
But  a  gleam  of  thee  on  its  lattice  fell, 
And  it  laugh'd  into  beauty  at  that  bright  spell. 


(296; 

To  the  earth's  wild  places  a  guest  thou  art, 
Flushing  the  waste  like  the  rose's  heart : 
And  thou  scornest  not  from  thy  pomp  to  shed 
A  tender  smile  on  the  ruin's  head. 

Thou  takest  through  the  dim  church  aisle  thy 

way, 

And  its  pillars  from  twilight  flash  forth  to  day, 
And  its  high  pale  tombs,  with  their  trophies  old, 
Are  bathed  in  a  flood  as  of  molten  gold. 

And  thou  turnest  not  from  the  humblest  grave, 
Where  a  flower  to  the  sighing  winds  may  wave ; 
Thou  scatterest  its  gloom  like  the  dreams  of  rest, 
Thou  sleepest  in  love  on  its  grassy  breast. 

Sunbeam  of  summer  !  oh,  whas  is  liko  thee  ? 
Hope  of  the  wilderness,  joy  of  the  sea  ! — 
One  thing  is  like  thee  to  mortals  given, 
The   faith    touching   all   things    with    hues   of 
heaven ! 


TO  MY  OWN  PORTRAIT. 

How  is  it  that  before  mine  eyes. 

While  gazing  on  thy  mien, 
All  my  past  years  of  life  arise, 

As  in  a  mirror  seen  ? 

What  spell  within  thee  hath  been  shrined, 
To  image  back  my  own  deep  mind  ? 


(297) 

Even  as  a  song  of  other  times 

Can  trouble  memory's  springs  ; 
Even  as  a  sound  of  vesper-chimes 

Can  wake  departed  things  ; 
Even  as  a  scent  of  vernal  flowers 
Hath  records  fraught  with  vanish'd  hours ;-- 

Such  power  is  thine  ! — they  come,  the  dead, 
From  the  grave's  bondage  free, 

And  smiling  back  the  changed  are  led, 
To  look  in  love  on  thee  ; 

And  voices  that  are  music  flown 

Speak  to  me  in  the  heart's  full  tone : 

Till  crowding  thoughts  my  soul  oppress — 
The  thoughts  of  happier  years, 

And  a  vain  gush  of  tenderness 
O'erflows  in  child-like  tears  ; 

A  passion  which  I  may  not  stay, 

A  sudden  fount  that  must  have  way. 

But  thou,  the  while — oh  !  almost  strange, 

Mine  imaged  self!  it  seems 
That  on  thy  brow  of  peace  no  change 

Reflects  my  own  swift  dreams  ; 
Almost  I  marvel  not  to  trace 
Those  lights  and  shadows  in  thy  face. 

To  see  thee  calm,  while  powers  thus  deep 

Affection— Memory — Grief — 
Pass  o'er  my  soul  as  winds  that  sweep 

O'er  a  frail  aspen-leaf! 
O  that  the  quiet  of  thine  eye 
Might  sink  there  when  the  storm  goes  by  ! 


(298) 

Yet  look  thou  still  serenely  on, 
And  if  sweet  friends  there  be, 

That  when  my  song  and  soul  are  gone 
Shall  seek  ray  form  in  thee, — 

Tell  them  of  one  for  whom  'twas  best 

To  flee  away  and  be  at  rest ! 


ANCIENT  BATTLE  SONG. 

FLING  forth  the  proud  banner  of  Leon  again ! 
Let  the  high  word    "  Castile "    go  resounding 

through  Spain  ! 

And  thou,  free  Asturias,  encamp'd  on  the  height, 
Pour  down  thy  dark  sons  to  the  vintage  of  fight ! 
Wake,  wake!  the  old  soil  where  thy  children 

repose 
Sounds  hollow  and  deep  to  the  trampling  of  foes ! 

The  voices  are  mighty  that  swell  from  the  past, 
With  Arragon's  cry  on  the  shrill  mountain  blast  ; 
The  ancient  sierras  give  strength  to  our  tread, 
Their  pines  murmur  song  where  bright  blood 

hath  been  shed. 

—Fling  forth  the  proud  banner  of  Leon  again, 
A.nd    shout   ye    "Castile!    to    the    rescue    lor 

Spain!" 


(299) 


A  PARTING  SONG. 

WHEN  wnl  ye  think  of  me,  my  friends  •> 

When  will  ye  thin*  of  me  '- 
When  the  last  red  light,  the  fare\vell  day. 
From  the  rock  and  the  river  is  passing  away-— 
When  the  air  with  a  deep'ning  hush  is  fraught, 
And   the    heart    grows    burden'd    with    tender 

thought — 
Then  let  it  be  ! 

When  will  ye  think  of  me,  kind  friends  ! 
When  will  ye  think  of  me  ? — 
When  the  rose  of  the  rich  midsummer  time 
Is  fill'd  with  the  hues  of  its  glorious  prime — 
When  ye  gather  its  bloom,  as  in  bright  hours 

fled, 
From  the  walks  where  my  footsteps  no  more 

may  tread  ; 
Then  let  it  be  ! 

When  will  ye  think  of  me,  sweet  friends? 

When  will  ye  think  of  me  ? — 
When  the  sudden  tears  o'erflow  your  eye 
At  the  sound  of  some  olden  melody — 
When  ye  hear  the  voice  of  a  mountain  stream, 
When  ye  feel  the  charm  of  a  poet's  dream — 

Then  let  it  be  ! 


(300) 

Thus  let  my  memory  be  with  you,  friends ! 

Thus  ever  think  of  me  ! 
Kindly  and  gently,  but  as  of  one 
For  whom  'tis  well  to  be  fled  and  gone — 
As  of  a  bird  from  a  chain  unbound, 
As  of  a  wanderer  whose  home  is  found — 

So  let  it  be. 


THE  BRIDE  OF  THE  GREEK  ISLE. 

COME  from  the  woods  with  the  citron  flowers, 
Come  with  your  lyres  for  the  festal  hours, 
Maids  of  bright  Scio !    They  came,  and  the  breeze 
Bore  their  sweet  songs  o'er  the  Grecian  seas  ; — 
They  came,  and  Eudora  stood  robed  and  crown'd, 
The  bride  of  the  morn,  with  her  train  around. 
Jewels  flash'd  out  from  her  braided  hair, 
Like  starry  dews  'midst  the  roses  there  ; 
Pearls  on  her  bosom  quivering  shone, 
Heaved  by  her  heart  through  its  golden  zone ; 
But  a  brow,  as  those  gems  of  the  ocean  pale, 
Gleam'd  from  beneath  her  transparent  veil; 
Changeful  and  faint  was  her  fair  cheek's  hue, 
Though  clear  as  a  flower  which  the  light  looks 

through ; 

And  the  glance  of  her  dark  resplendent  eye, 
For  the  aspect  of  woman  at  times  too  high, 
Lay  floating  in  mists,  which  the  troubled  stream 
Of  the  soul  sent  up  o'er  its  fervid  beam. 


(301) 

She  look'd  on  the  vine  at  her  father's  door, 

Like  one  that  is  leaving  his  native  shore  ; 

She  hung  o'er  the  myrtle  once  calTd  her  own, 

As  it  greenly  waved  by  the  threshold  stone  ; 

She  turn'd — and  her  mother's  gaze  brought  back 

Caih  hue  of  her  childhood's  faded  track. 

Oh  !  hush  the  song,  and  let  her  tears 

Plow  to  the  dream  of  her  early  years  ! 

Holy  and  pure  are  the  drops  that  fall 

When  the  young  bride  goes  from  her  father's 

hall ; 

She  goes  unto  love  yet  untried  and  new, 
She  parts  from  love  which  hath  still  been  true  ; 
Mute  be  the  song  and  the  choral  strain, 
Till  her  heart's  deep  and  well-spring    is   near 

again  ! 

She  wept  on  her  mother's  faithful  breast, 
Like  a  babe  that  sobs  itself  to  rest  ; 
She  wept — yet  laid  her  hand  awhile 
In  his  that  waited  her  dawning  smile, 
Her  soul's  affianced,  nor  cherish'd  less 
For  the  gush  of  nature's  tenderness ! 
She  lifted  her  graceful  head  at  last — 
The  choking  swell  of  her  heart  was  past ; 
And  her  lovely  thoughts  from  their  cells  found 

way 
In  the  sudden  flow  of  a  plaintive  lay. 

26 


3021 


THE  BENDED  BOW. 

THERE  was  heard  the  sound  of  a  coming  foe, 
There  was  sent  through  Britain  a  bended  bow 
And  a  voice  was  pour'd  on  the  free  winds  far, 
As  the  land  rose  up  at  the  sign  of  war. 

"  Heard  you  not  the  battle  horn  ? — 
Reaper  !  leave  thy  golden  corn  ! 
Leave  it  for  the  birds  of  heaven, 
Swords  must  flash,  and  spears  be  riven! 
Leave  it  for  the  winds  to  shed — 
Arm  !  ere  Britain's  turf  grow  red  !  " 

And  the  reaper  arm'd,  like  a  freeman's  son  ; 
And  the  bended  bow  and  the  voice  pass'd  on. 

"  Hunter  !  leave  the  mountain  chase  ! 
Take  the  falchion  from  its  place ! 
Let  the  wolf  go  free  to-day, 
Leave  him  for  a  nobler  prey  ! 
Let  the  deer  ungall'd  sweep  by, — 
Arm  thee  !  Britain's  foes  are  nigh !  " 

And  the  hunter  arm'd  ere  the  chase  was  done , 
And  the  bended  bow  and  the  voice  pass'd  on. 

"  Chieftain  !  quit  the  joyous  feast ! 
Stay  not  till  the  song  hath  ceased  • 
Though  the  mead  be  foaming  bright, 
Though  the  fire  give  ruddy  light, 


(  303  )     : x 

Leave  the  hearth  and  leave  the  hall — 
Arm  thee  !  Britain's  foes  must  fall." 

And  the  chieftain  arm'd,  and  the  horn  was  blown ; 
And  the  bended  bow  and  the  voice  pass'd  on. 

"  Prince  !  thy  father's  deeds  are  told, 
In  the  bower  and  in  the  hold ! 
Where  the  goatherd's  lay  is  snng, 
Where  the  minstrel's  harp  is  strung ! 
Foes  are  on  thy  native  sea — 
Give  our  bards  a  tale  of  thee  !  " 

And  the  prince  came  arm'd,  like  a  leader's  son ; 
And  the  bended  bow  and  the  voice  pass'd  on. 

"  Mother  !  stay  thou  not  thy  boy  ! 
He  must  leard  the  battle's  joy. 
Sister  !  bring  the  sword  and  spear, 
Give  thy  brother  words  of  cheer  ! 
Maiden  !  bid  thy  lover  part, 
Britain  calls  the  strong  in  heart !  " 

And  the  bended  bow  and  the  voice  pass'd  on ; 
And  the  bards  made  song  for  a  battle  won. 


WOMAN  AND  FAME. 

THOU  hast  a  charmed  cup  O  Fame ! 

A  draught  that  mantles  high, 
And  seems  to  lift  this  earthly  frame 

Above  mortality. 


(304) 

Away !  to  me — a  woman — bring 
Sweet  waters  from  affection's  spring. 

Thou  hast  green  laurel  leaves,  that  twine 

Into  so  proud  a  wreath  ; 
For  that  resplendent  gift  of  thine, 

Heroes  have  smiled  in  death  : 
Give  me  from  some  kind  hand  a  flower, 
The  record  of  one  happy  hour  ! 

Thou  hast  a  voice,  whose  thrilling  tone 

Can  bid  each  life-pulse  beat 
As  when  a  trumpet's  note  hath  blown, 

Calling  the  brave  to  meet : 
But  mine,  let  mine — a  woman's  breast, 
By  words  of  home-bern  love  be  bless'd. 

A  hollow  sound  is  in  thy  song, 

A  mockery  in  thine  eye, 
To  the  sick  heart  that  doth  but  long 

For  aid,  for  sympathy — 
For  kindly  looks  to  cheer  it  on, 
For  tender  accents  that  are  gone. 

Fame,  Fame !  thou  canst  not  be  the  stav 

Unto  the  drooping  reed, 
The  cool  fresh  fountain  in  the  day 

Of  the  soul's  feverish  need  : 
Where  must  the  lone  one  turn  or  flee0 
Not  unto  thee — oh  !  not  to  thee  ' 


(305) 


THE  PENITENT'S  RETURN. 

Mr  father's  house  once  more. 
In  its  own  moonlight  beauty  !     Yet  around, 
Something  amidst  the  dewy  calm  profound, 

Broods,  never  mark'd  before  ! 

Is  it  the  brooding  night, 
Is  it  the  shivery  creeping  on  the  air, 
That  makes  the  home  so  tranquil  and  so  fair, 

Overwhelming  to  my  sight  ? 

All  solemnized  it  seems, 

And  still,  and  darken'd  in  each  time-worn  hue, 
Since  the  rich  clustering  roses  met  my  view, 

As  now,  by  starry  gleams. 

And  this  high  elm,  where  last 
I  stood  and  linger'd — where  my  sisters  made 
Our  mother's  bower — 1  deem'd  not  that  it  cast 

So  far  and  dark  a  shade  ! 

How  spirit-like  a  tone 
S  ghs  through  yon  tree  !     My  father's  place  was 

there 
At  evening  hours,  while  soft  winds  waved  his 

hair! 

Now  those  grey  locks  are  gone  ! 
26* 


(  306  ) 

My  soul  grows  faint  with  fear  ; 
Even  as  if  angel-steps  had  mark'd  the  sod. 
I  tremble  where  I  move — the  voice  of  God 

Is  in  the  foliage  here ! 

Is  it  indeed  the  night 

That    makes  my  home    so    awful  ?     Faithless- 
hearted  ! 
'Tis  that  from  thine  own  bosom  hatli  departed 

The  inborn  gladd'ning  light ! 

No  outward  thing  is  changed  ; 
Only  the  joy  of  purity  is  fled, 
And,  long  from  nature's  melodies  estranged, 

Thou  hear'st  their  notes  with  dread. 

Therefore,  the  calm  abode, 
By  the  dark  spirit,  is  o'erhung  with  shade  ; 
And,  therefore,  in  the  leaves,  the  voice  of  God 

Makes  thy  sick  heart  afraid  ! 

The  night-flowers  round  that  door, 
Still  breathe  pure  fragrance  on  the  untainted  air  ; 
Thou,  thou  alone  art  worthy  now  no  more 

To  pass,  and  rest  thee  there. 

And  must  I  turn  away  ? — 
Hark,  hark  ! — it  is  my  mother's  voice  I  hear — 
Sadder  than  once  it  seem'd — yet  soft  and  clear — 

Doth  she  not  seem  to  pray  ? 

My  name  ! — I  caught  the  sound  ! 
Oh !  blessed  tone  of  love — the  deep,  the  mild — 
Mother,  ray  mother !     Now  receive  thy  child, 

Take  back  the  lost  and  found  ' 


307) 


DIRGE  OF  A  CHILD. 

No  bitter  tears  for  thee  be  shed, 
Blossom  of  being  !  seen  and  gone  ! 
With  flowers  alone  we  strew  thy  bed, 

O  blest  departed  One  ! 
Whose  all  of  life,  a  rosy  ray, 
Bless'd  into  dawn  and  pass'd  away. 

Yes !  thou  art  fled,  ere  guilt  had  power 
To  stain  thy  cherub-soul  and  form, 
Closed  is  the  soft  ephemeral  flower, 

That  never  felt  a  storm  ! 
The  sunbeam's  smile,  the  zephyr's  breath, 
All  that  it  knew  from  birth  to  death. 

Thou  wert  so  like  a  form  of  light, 
That  heaven  benignly  call'd  thee  hence, 
Ere  yet  the  world  could  breathe  one  blight 

O'er  thy  sweet  innocence  : 
And  thou,  that  brighter  home  to  bless, 
Art  pass'd,  with  all  thy  loveliness ! 

Oh !  hadst  thou  still  on  earth  remain'd, 

Vision  of  beauty  !  fair,  as  brief ! 

How  soon  thy  brightness  had  been  stam'd 

With  passion  or  with  grief ! 
Now  not  a  sullying  breath  can  rise, 
To  dim  thy  glory  in  the  skies. 


(  308  ) 

We  rear  no  marble  o'er  thy  tomb  ; 
No  sculptured  image  there  shall  mourn ; 
Ah  !  fitter  far  the  vernal  bloom 
Such  dwelling  to  adorn. 
Fragrance,  and  flowers,  and  dews,  must  be 
The  only  emblem  meet  for  thee. 

Thy  grave  shall  be  a  blessed  shrine, 
Adorn'd  Avith  Nature's  brightest  wreath  ; 
Each  glowing  season  shall  combine 

Its  incense  there  to  breathe  : 
And  oft,  upon  the  midnight  air, 
Shall  viewless  harps  be  murmuring  there. 

And  oh !  sometimes  in  visions  blest, 

Sweet  spirit !  visit  our  repose  ; 

And  bear,  from  thine  own  world  of  rest, 

Some  balm  for  human  woes ! 
What  form  more  lovely  could  be  given 
Than  thine  to  messenger  of  heaven  ? 


THE  SILENT  MULTITUDE. 

A  MIGHTY  and  a  mingled  throng 

Were  gather'd  in  one  spot  ; 
The*  dwellers  of  a  thousand  homes — 

Yet  'midst  them  voice  was  not. 

The  soldier  and  his  chief  were  there — 

The  mother  and  her  child  : 
The  friends,  the  sisters  of  one  hearth— 

None  spoke — none  moved — none  smiled. 


(  309 ) 

There  lovers  met,  between  whose  lives 

Years  had  swept  darkly  by  ; 
After  that  heart-sick  hope  deferr'd— 

They  met — but  silently. 

You  might  have  heard  the-  rustling  leaf, 

The  breeze's  faintest  sound, 
The  shiver  of  an  insect's  wing, 

On  that  thick-peopled  ground. 

Your  voice  to  whispers  would  have  died, 

For  the  deep  quiet's  sake  • 
Your  tread  the  softest  moss  have  sought, 

Such  stillness  not  to  break. 

What  held  the  countless  multitude 
Bound  in  that  spell  of  peace  ? 

How  could  the  ever-sounding  life 
Amid  so  many  cease  ? 

Was  it  some  pageant  of  the  air — 

Some  glory  high  above, 
That  link'd  and  hush'd  those  human  souls 

In  reverential  love  ? 

Or  did  some  burdening  passion's  weight 
Hang  on  their  indrawn  breath  ? 

Awe — the  pale  awe  that  freezes  words  ? 
Fear — the  strong  fear  of  death  ? 

A  mightier  thing — Death,  Death  himself 

Lay  on  each  lonely  heart ! 
Kindred  were  there — yet  hermits  all — 

Thousands,  but  each  apart. 


,310) 


THE  STRANGER  IN  LOUISIANA. 

WE  saw  thee,  O  stranger,  and  wept ! 
We  look'd  for  the  youth  of  the  sunny  glance, 
Whose  step  was  the  fleetest  in  chase  or  dance ! 
The  light  of  his  eye  was  a  joy  to  see, 
The  path  of  his  arrows  a  storm  to  flee  ! 
But  there  came  a  voice  from  a  distant  shore  : 
He  was  call'd — lie  is  found  'midst  his  tribes  no 

more ! 

He  is  not  in  his  place  when  the  night-fires  burn, 
But  we  look  for  him  still — he  will  yet  return ! 
His  brother  sat  with  a  drooping  brow 
In  the  gloom  of  the  shadowing  cypress  bough : 
We  roused  him — we  bade  him  no  longer  pine, 
For  we  heard  a  step — but  the  step  was  thine. 

We  saw  thee,  0  stranger,  and  wept ! 
We  look  d  for  the  maid  of  the  mournful  song — 
Mournful,  though  sweet — she  hath  left  us  long ! 
We  told  her  the  youth  of  her  love  was  gone, 
And  she  went  forth  to   seek   him — she  pass'd 

alone  ; 

We  hear  not  her  voice  when  the  woods  are  siiii. 
From  the  bower  where  it  sang,  like  a  silvery  ^U. 
/  The  joy  of  her  sire  with  her  smile  is  fled, 
The  winter  is  white  on  his  lonely  head, 
He  hath  none  by  his  side  when  the  wilds  we 

track, 
He  hath  none  when  we  rest — yet  she  comes  not 

back ! 


(311) 

We  look'd  for  her  eye  ou  the  feast  to  shine, 
For  her  breezy  step — but  the  step  was  thine  ! 

We  saw  thee,  O  stranger,  and  wept ! 
We  look'd  for  the  chief  who  hath  left  the  spear 
And  the  bow  of  his  battles  forgotten  here ! 
We  look'd  for  the  hunter,  \vhose  bride's  lament 
On  the  wind  of  the  forest  at  eve  is  sent : 
We  look'd  for  the  first-born,  whose  mother's  cry 
Sounds   wild  and   shrill   through   the  midnight 

sky ! — 
Where  are  they  ? — thou  art  seeking  some  distant 

coast — 

O  ask  of  them,  stranger  ! — send  back  the  lost ! 
Tell  tnem  we  mourn  by  the  dark  -blue  streams, 
Tell  them  our  lives  but  of  them  are  dreams ! 
Tell,  how  we  sat  in  the  gloom  to  pine, 
And  to  watch  for  a  step — but  the  step  was  thine  ! 


THE  MESSENGER  BIRD. 

THOU  art  come  from  the  spirits'  land,  thou  bird  ! 

Thou  art  come  from  the  spirits'  land  : 
Through  the  dark  pine  grove  let  thy  voice  be 
heard, 

And  tell  of  the  shadowy  band  ! 

We  know  that  the  bowers  are  green  and  fair 
In  the  light  of  that  summer  shore, 

And  we  know  that  the  friends  we  have  lost  are 

there, 
They  are  there — and  they  weep  no  more .' 


(312) 

And  we  know  they  have  quench'd  their  fever's 
thirst 

From  the  Fountain  of  youth  ere  now, 
For  there  must  the  stream  in  its  freshness  burst 

Which  none  may  find  below  ! 

And  we  know  that  they  will  not  be  lured  to  ( arth 
From  the  land  of  deathless  flowers, 

By  the  feast,  or  the  dance,  or  the  song  of  mirth, 
Though  their  hearts  were  once  with  ours : 

Though  they  sat  with  us  by  the  night-fire's  blaze, 

And  bent  with  us  the  bow, 
And  heard  the  tales  of  our  fathers'  days, 

Which  are  told  to  others  now  ! 

But  tell  us,  thou  bird  of  the  solemn  strain ! 

Can  those  who  have  love  forget  ? 
We  call — and  they  answer  not  again — 

Do  they  love — do  they  love  us  yet  ? 

Doth  the  warrior  think  of  his  brother  there, 

And  the  father  of  his  child  ? 
And  the  chief,  of  those  who  were  wont  to  share 

His  wandering  through  the  wild  ? 

We  call  them  far  through  the  silent  night, 
And  they  speak  not  from  cave  or  hill  ; 

We  know,  thou  bird !  that  their  land  is  bright 
But  say,  do  they  love  there  still  ? 


(313) 


BRING  FLOWERS. 

BBING   flowers,    young   flowers,    for    the    festal 

board, 

To  wieath  the  cup  ere  the  wine  is  pour'd  : 
Bring  flowers  !  they  are  springing  in  wood  and 

vale  : 

Their  breath  floats  out  on  the  southern  gale  ; 
And  the   torch  of  the  sunbeam  hath  waked  the 

rose, 
To  deck  the  hall  where  the  bright  wine  flows. 

Bring  flowers  to  strew  in  the  conqueror's  path- 
He  hath  shaken  thrones  with  his  stormy  wrath ! 
He  comes  with  the  spoils  of  nations  back, 
The  vines  lie  crush'd  in  his  chariot's  track, 
The  turf  looks  red  where  he  won  the  day — 
Bring  flowers  to  die  in  the  conqueror's  way ! 

Bring  flowers  to  the  captive's  lonely  cell, 
They  have  tales  of  the  joyous  woods  to  tell ; 
Of  the  free  blue  streams,  and  the  glowing  sky, 
And  the  bright  world  shut  from  his  languid  eye 
They  will  bear  him  a  thought  of  the  sunny 

hours, 
And  the  dream  of  his  youth — bring  him  flowers 

wild  flowers ! 

Bring  flowers,  fresh  flowers,  for  the  bride  to  wear. 
They  were  born  to  blush  in  her  shining  hair. 
27 


(314) 

She  is  leaving  the  home  of  her  childhood's  mirth, 
She  hath  bid  farewell  to  her  father's  hearth, 
Her  place  is  now  by  another's  side — 
Iking  flowers  for  the  locks  of  the  fair  young 
bride ! 

Hring  flowers,  pale  flowers,  o'er  the  bier  to  shed, 

A  crown  for  the  brow  of  the  early  dead ! 

For  this  through  its  leaves  hath  the  white  rose 

burst, 

For  this  in  the  woods  was  the  violet  nursed ! 
Though  they  smile  in  vain  for  what  once  was 

ours, 
They  are  love's  last  gift — bring  ye  flowers,  pale 

flowers ! 

Bring  flowers  to  the  shrine  where  we  kneel  in 

prayer, 

They  are  nature's  offering,  their  place  is  there  ! 
They  speak  of  hope  to  the  fainting  heart, 
With  a  voice  of  promise  they  come  and  part  ; 
They  sleep  in  dust  through  the  wintry  hours, 
They  break  forth  in  glory — bring  flowers,  bright 

flowers ! 


THE  WATER  LILY. 

OH  !  beautiful  thou  art, 

Thou  sculpture-like  and  stately  River-Q,ueen ! 
Crowning  the  depths,  as  with  the  light  serene 

Of  a  pure  heart. 


(315) 

Bright  lily  of  the  wave ! 
Rising  in  fearless  grace  with  every  swell, 
Thou  seem'st  as  if  a  spirit  meekly  brave 

Dwelt  in  thy  cell : 

Lifting  alike  thy  head 
Of  placid  beauty,  feminine  yet  free, 
Whether  with  foam  or  pictured  azure  spread 

The  waters  be. . 

What  is  like  thee,  fair  flower, 
The  gentle  and  the  firm  ?  thus  bearing  up 
To  the  blue  sky  that  alabaster  cup, 

As  to  the  shower  ? 

Oh  !  Love  is  most  like  thee, 
The  love  of  woman ;  quivering  to  the  blast 
Through  every  nerve,  yet  rooted  deep  and  fast 4 

'Midst  Life's  dark  sea. 

And  Faith — O,  is  not  faith 
Like  thee  too,  Lily,  springing  into  light, 
Still  buoyantly  above  the  billows'  might, 

Through  the  storm's  breath  ? 

Yes,  link'd  with  such  high  thought. 
Flower,  let  thine  image  in  my  bosom  lie ! 
Till  something  there  of  its  own  purity 

And  peace  be  wrought : 

Something  yet  more  divine 
Than  the  clear,  pearly,  virgin  lustre  shed 
Forth  from  thy  breast  upon  the  river's  bed, 

As  from  a  shrine. 


^316) 


ANGEL   VISITS. 

ARF  ye  forever  to  your  skies  departed? 

Oh  !  will  ye  visit  this  dim  world  no  more? 
Ye,  whose  bright  wings  a  solemn  splendor  darted 

Through  Eden's  fresh  and  flowering  shades 

of  yore? 

Now  are  the  fountains  dried  on  that  sweet  spot. 
And  ye — our  faded  earth  beholds  you  not ! 

Yet,  by  your  shining  eyes  not  all  forsaken, 
Man  wander'd  from  his  Paradise  away ; 

Ye,  from  forgetfulness  his  heart  to  waken, 
Came  down,  high  guests!  in  many  a  later  day. 

And  with  the  patriarchs,  under  vine  or  oak, 

'Midst  noontide  calm,  or  hush  of  evening,  spoke. 

from  you,  the  veil  of  midnight  darkness  rending, 
Came  the  rich  mysteries  to  the  sleeper's  eye, 

That  saw  your  hosts  ascending  and  descending 
On  those  bright  steps  between  the  earth  and 
sky : 

Trembling  he  woke,  and  bow'd  o'er  glory's  trace. 

And  worshipp'd,  awe-struck,  in  that  fearful  place. 

By   Che  bar's   brook    ye    pass'd,    such    radiance 
wearing 

As  mortal  vision  might  but  ill  endure  ; 
Along  the  stream  the  living  chariot  bearing, 

With  its  high  crystal  arch,  intensely  pure! 


(317) 

And  the  dread  rushing  of  your  wings  that  hour, 
Was  like  the  noise  of  waters  in  their  power. 


Hut  in  the  Olive-mount,  by  night  appearing, 
'Midst  the  dim  leaves,  your  holiest  work  was 

done  ! 
Whose    was    the    voice    that    came     divinely 

cheering, 
Fraught  with  the  breath  of  God,  to  aid  his 

Son? 

— Haply  of  those  that,  on  the  moon-lit  plains, 
Wafted  good  tidings  unto  Syrian  swain.s. 

Yet  one  more  task  was  yours !  your  heavenly 

dwelling 

Ye  left,  and  by  the  unseal'd  sepulchral  stone, 
En  glorious  raiment  sat ;  the  weepers  telling, 
That  HE  they  sought  had  triumph'd,  and  was 

gone  ! 

Nor  have  ye  left  us  for  the  brighter  shore, 
Your  presence  lights  the  lonely  groves  no  more. 

But  may  ye  not,  unseen,  around  us  hover, 

With  gentle  promptings  and  sweet  influence 

yet, 

Though  the  fresh  glory  of  those  days  be  over, 
When,  'midst  the  palm  trees,  man  your  foot* 

steps  met  ? 

Are  ye  not  near  when  faith  and  hope  rise  high, 
When  love,  by  strength,  o'ermasters  agony  ^ 
27* 


(318; 

Are  ye  not  near  when  sorrow,  unrepining, 

Yields  up  life's  treasures  unto  Him  who  gave? 
When  martyrs,  all  things  for  His  sake  resigning, 
Lead  on  the  march  of  death,  serenely  biave  ? 
Dreams! — but  a  deeper  thought  our  souls  may 

fill- 
One,  One  is  near — a  spirit  holier  still ! 


THE  ROCK  BESIDE  THE  SEA. 

OH  !  tell  me  not  the  woods  are  fair, 

Now  Spring  is  on  her  way  ; 
Well,  well  I  know  how  brightly  there 

In  joy  the  young  leaves  play  ; 
How  sweet  on  winds  of  morn  or  eve 

The  violet's  breath  may  be  ; — 
Yet  ask  me,  woo  me  not  to  leave 

My  lone  rock  by  the  sea. 

The  wild  wave's  thunder  on  the  shore, 

The  curlew's  restless  cries, 
Unto  my  watching  heart  are  more 

Than  all  earth's  melodies. 
Come  back,  my  ocean  rover  !  come  ! 

There's  but  one  place  for  me, 
Till  I  can  greet  thy  swift  sail  home — 

My  lone  rock  by  the  sea ! 


V319) 


THE  TWO  HOMES. 

SEEST  thou  my  home? — 'tis  where  yon  woods 

are  waving, 

In  their  dark  richness,  to  the  summer  air  ; 
Where  yon  blue  stream,  a  thousand  flower-banks 

laving, 
Leads  down  the  hills  a  vein  of  light, — 'tis  there  ! 

'Midst  those  green  wilds  how  many  a  fount  lies 

gleaming, 

Fringed  with  violet,  color'd  with  the  skies ! 
My  boyhood's  haunt,  through  days  of  summer 

dreaming, 
Under  young  leaves  that  shook  with  melodies. 

My  home  !  the  spirit  of  its  love  is  breathing 
In  every  wind  that  plays  across  my  track ; 
From  its  white  walls  the  very  tendrils  wreathing, 
Seem  with  soft  links  to  draw  the  wanderer  back. 

There  am  I  Icved — there  pray'd  for — there  my 

mother 
Sits   by    the    hearth   with    meekly   thoughtful 

eye; 
There  my  young  sisters  watch  to  greet   their 

brother 
— Soon   their   glad   footsteps    down    the    path 

will  fly. 


(320) 

There,  in  sweet  strains  of  kindred  music 
blending, 

All  the  home-voices  meet  at  day's  decline ; 

One  are  those  tones,  as  from  one  heart  as- 
cending,— 

There  laughs  my  home — sad  stranger  ! — whei  e 
is  thine  ? 

Ask'st  thou  of  mine  ? — In  solemn  peace  't»s  lying, 
Far  o'er  the  deserts  and  the  tombs  away 
'Tis  where  I,  too,  am  loved  with  love  undying, 
And  fond  hearts  wait  my  step — But  where  are 
they? 

Ask   where    the    earth's    departed    have     their 

dwelling ! 

Ask  of  the  clouds,  the  stars,  the  trackless  air ! 
I  know  it  not,  yet  trust  the  whisper,  telling 
My  lone  heart,  that  love  unchanged  is  there. 

And  what  is  home,  and  where,  but  with  the  loving  I 
Happy  thou  art,  -that  canst  so  gaze  on  thine  ! 
My  spirit  feels,  but  in  its  weary  roving, 
That  with  the  dead,  where'er  they  be,  is  mine. 

•% 

Go  to  thy  home,  rejoicing  son  and  brother  ! 
Bear  in  fresh  gladness  to  the. household  scene! 
For  me,  too,  watch  the  sister  and  the  mother, 
I  well  believe — but  dark  seas  roll  between. 


SADNESS  AND  MIRTH. 

Yv:  met  at  the  stately  feasts  of  old, 
W'liere  the  bright  wine  foam'd  over  sculptured 
Sadness  and  mirth  !  ye  were  mingled  there 
With  the  sound  of  the  lyre  in  the  scented  air  ; 
As  the  cloud  and  the  lightning  are  blent  on  high, 
Ye  mix'd  in  the  gorgeous  revelry. 

For  there  hung  o'er  those  banquets  of  yore  a 

gloom, 

A  thought  and  a  shadow  of  the  tomb  ;— 
It  gave  to  the  flute-notes  an  lender-tone, 
To  the  rose  a  coloring  not  its  own, 
To  the  breath  of  the  myrtle  a  mournful  power — 
Sadness  and  mirth  !  ye  had  each  your  dower  ! 

Ye  met  when  the  triumph  went  proudly  by, 
With  the  Roman  eagles  through  the  sky ! 
I  know  *,hat  even  then,  in  his  hour  of  pride, 
The  soul  of  the  mighty  within  him  died ; 
That  a  void  in  his  bosom  lay  darkly  still, 
Which  the  music  of  victory  might  never  fill  i 

Tl:.ou  wert  there,  oh,   mirth !   swelling  oil  Ilia 

shout, 

Til.  the  temples,  like  echo-caves,  rang  out : 
Thine  were  the  garlands,  the  songs,  the  wine. 
All  the  rich  voices  in  air  were  thine,  [Partt 

The   incense,    the   sunshine — but,   sadness,   thy 
Deepest  of  all  was  the  victor's  heart ! 


Ye  meet  at  the  bridal  with  flower  and  tear ; 

Strangely  and  wildly  ye  meet  by  the  bier! 

As  the  gleam  from  a  sea-bird's  white  wing  shed, 

Crosses  the  storm  in  its  path  of  dread  ; 

As  a  dirge  meets  the  breeze  of  a  summer  sky — 

Sadness  and  mirth  !  so  ye  come  and  11  y  ! 

Ye  meet  in  the  poet's  haunted  breast, 
Darkness  and  rainbow,  alike  its  guest ! 
When  the  breath  of  the  violet  is  out  in  spring, 
When  the  woods  with  the  wakening  of  music  ring, 
O'er  his  dreamy  spirit  your  currents  pass, 
Like  shadow  and  sunlight  o'er  mountain  grass. 

When  will  your  parting  be,  sadness  and  mirth  ? 
Bright  stream  and  dark  one  ! — oh !  never  on  earth ! 
Never  while  triumphs  and  tombs  are  so  near, 
While  death  and  love  walk  the  same  dim  sphere, 
While  flowers  unfold  where  the  storm  may  sweep. 
While  the  heart  of  man  is  a  soundless  deep  ! 

But  there  smiles  a  land,  oh  ?  ye  troubled  pair ! 
Where  ye  have  no  part  in  the  summer  air. 
For  from  the  breathings  of  changeful  skies, 
Over  the  seas  and  the  graves  it  lies 
Where  the  day  of  the  lightning  and  cloud  is  done 
And  joy  reigns  alone,  as  the  lonely  sun  ! 


(  323  ) 


THE  BRIDE'S  FAREWELL. 

WHY  do  I  weep  ?  to  leave  the  vine 

Whose  clusters  o'er  me  bend, — 
The  myrtle — yet,  oh  !  call  it  mine  ! — 

The  flowers  I  loved  to  tend. 
A  thousand  thoughts  of  all  things  dear 

Like  shadows  o'er  me  sweep, 
I  leave  my  sunny  childhood  here, 

Oh,  therefore,  let  me  weep! 


I  leave  thee,  sister !  we  have  play'd 

Through  many  a  joyous  hour, 
Where  the  silvery  green  of  the  olive  shada 

Hung  dim  o'er  fount  and  bower. 
Yes,  thou  and  I,  by  stream,  by  shore. 

In  song,  in  prayer,  in  sleep, 
Have  been  as  we  may  be  no  more — 

Kind  sister,  let  me  weep  ! 

I  leave  thee  father !  Eve's  bright  moon 

Must  now  light  other  feet. 
With  the  gat  her 'd  grapes,  and  the  lyre  in  tune 

Thy  homeward  step  to  greet. 
Thou  in  whose  voice,  to  bless  thy  child. 

Lay  tones  of  love  so  deep, 
Whose  eye  o'er  all  my  youth  hath  smiled — 

I  leave  thee  !  let  me  weep  ! 


(  324  ) 

Mother  !  I  leave  thee  !  on  thy  breast. 

Pouring  out  joy  and  woe, 
I  have  found  that  holy  place  of  rest 

Still  changeless, — yet  I  go  ! 
Lips,  that  have  lull'd  me  with  your  strain, 

Eyes,  that  have  watch'd  my  sleep  : 
Will  earth  give  love  like  yours  again? 

Sweet  mother  !  let  me  weep ! 


THE  SOUND  OF  THE  SEA. 

THOU  art  sounding  on,  thou  mighty  sea, 

For  ever  and  the  same  ! 
The  ancient  rocks  yet  ring  to  thee  : 

Those  thunders  nought  can  tame. 

Oh  !  many  a  glorious  voice  is  gone 

From  the  rich  bowers  of  earth, 
And  husli'd  is  many  a  lovely  one 

Of  mournfulness  or  mirth. 

The  Dorian  flute  that  sigh'd  of  yore 

Along  the  wave,  is  still  ; 
The  harp  of  Judah  peals  no  more 

On  Z ion's  awful  hill. 

And  Memnon's  lyre  hath  lost  the  chord 

That  breathed  the  mystic  tone  : 
And  the  songs  at  Rome's  high  triumphs  pour'd 

Are  with  her  cabins  flown. 


(325) 

And  mute  the  Moorish  horn  that  rang 
O'er  stream  and  mountain  free  ; 

And  the  hymn  the  leagued  Crusaders  sang 
Hath  died  in  Galilee. 

But  thou  art  swelling  on,  thou  deep, 
Through  many  an  olden  clime, 

Thy  billowy  anthem  rie'er'to  sleep 
Until  the  close  of  time. 

Thou  liftest  up  thy  solemn  voice 

To  every  wind  and  sky, 
And  all  our  earth's  green  shores  rejoice 

In  that  one  harmony. 

It  fills  the  noontide's  calm  profound, 

The  sunset's  heaven  of  gold  ; 
And  the  still  midnight  hears  the  sound, 

Even  as  first  it  roll'd. 

Let  there  be  silence,  deep  and  strange, 
Where  sceptred  cities  rose  ! 

Thou  speakest  of  One  who  doth  not  change- 
So  may  our  hearts  repose. 


A  PRAYER  OF  AFFECTION. 

BLESSINGS,  O  Father,  shower  ! 
Father  of  mercies  !  round  his  precious  head  ! 
On  his  lone  walks  and  on  his  thoughtful  hour, 
And  the  pure  visions  of  his  midnight  bed, 

Blessings  be  shed ! 
28 


V326) 

Father !  I  pray  Thee  not 
For  earthly  treasure  to  that  most  beloved, 
Fame,  fortune,  power; — oh!  be  his  spirit  proved 
By  these,  or  by  their  absence,  at  Thy  will ! 
But  let  Thy  peace  be  wedded  to  his  lot, 
Guarding  his  inner  life  from  touch  of  ill, 

With  its  dove-pinion  still ! 

Let  such  a  sense  of  Thee, 
Thy  watching  presence,  thy  sustaining  love, 
His  bosom  guest  inalienably  be, 

That  wheresoe'er  he  move, 

A  heavenly  light  serene 

Upon  his  heart  and  mien 
May  sit  undimm'd  !  a  gladness  rest  his  own, 
Urispeakabte,  and  to  the  world  unknown  ! 
Such  as  from  childhood's  morning  land  of  dreams, 

Remember'd  faintly,  gleams, 
Faintly  remember'd,  and  too  swiftly  flown ! 

So  let  him  walk  with  Thee, 

Made  by  Thy  spirit  free  ; 

And  when  thou  call'st  him  from  his  mortal  place, 
To  his  last  hour  be  still  that  sweetness  given, 
That  joyful  trust !  and  brightly  let  him  part, 
With  lamp  clear  burning,  and  unlingering  heart, 

Mature  to  meet  in  heaven 

His  Saviour's  face ! 


(  327  ) 


THE  ANTIQUE  SEPULCHRE. 

O  EVER  joyous  band 
Of  revellers  amidst  the  southern  vines  ! 
On  the  pale  marble,  by  some  gifted  hand, 

Fix'd  in  undying  lines  ! 

Thou,  with  the  sculptured  bowl, 
And  tliou,  that  wearest  the  immortal  wreath, 
And  thou,  from  whose  young  lip  and  flute,  the  soul 

Of  music  seems  to  breathe  ; 

And  ye,  luxuriant  flowers  ! 
Linking  the  dancers  with  your  graceful  ties, 
And  cluster'd  fruitage,  born  of  sunny  hours, 

Under  Italian  skies  : 

Ye,  that  a  thousand  springs, 
And  leafy  summers  with  their  odorous  breath, 
May  yet  outlast, — what  do  ye  there,  bright  things ! 

Mantling  the  place  of  death  ? 

Of  sunlight  and  soft  air, 
And  Dorian  reeds,  and  myrtles  ever  green, 
Unto  the  heart  a  glowing  thought  ye  bear; — 

Why  thus,  where  dust  hath  been  ? 

Is  it  to  show  how  slight 
The  bond  that  severs  festivals  and  tombs, 
Music  and  silence,  roses  and  the  blight, 

Crowns  and  sepulchral  glooms  ? 


I  328  ) 

Or  when  the  father  laid 
Haply  his  child's  pale  ashes  here  t3  sleep, 
When  the  friend  visited  the  cypress  shade, 

Flowers  o'er  the  dead  to  heap ; 

Say  if  the  mourners  sought, 
In  these  rich  images  of  summer  mirth,    [thcughl 
These  wine-cups  and  gay  wreaths,  to  lose  the 

Of  our  last  hour  on  earth  ? 

Ye  have  no  voice,  no  sound, 
Ye  flutes  and  lyres,  to  tell  me  what  I  seek  ; 
Silent  ye  are,  light  forms  with  vine  leaves  crown'd, 

Yet  to  my  soul  ye  speak. 

Alas !  for  those  that  lay 
Down  in  the  dust  without  their  hope  of  old  ! 
Backward  they  look'd  on  life's  rich  banquet-day, 

But  all  beyond  was  cold. 

Every  sweet  wood-note  then, 
And  through  the  plane  trees  every  sunbeam's  glow, 
And  each  glad  murmur  from  the  homes  of  men, 

Made  it  more  hard  to  go. 

But  we,  when  life  grows  dim, 
When  its  last  melodies  float  o'er  our  way, 
Its  changeful  hues  before  us  faintly  swim, 

Its  flitting  lights  decay  • — 

E'en  though  we  bid  farewell 
Unto  the  spring's  blue  skies  and  budding  trees 
Yet  may  we  lift  our  hearts,  in  hope  to  dwell 

'Midst  brighter  things  than  these. 


^  329  ) 

And  think  of  deathless  flowers, 
And  of  bright  streams  to  glorious  valleys  given, 
And  know  the  while,  how  little  dream  of  ours 

Can  shadow  forth  of  Heaven. 


THE  CAMBRIAN  IN  AMERICA. 

WHEN  the  last  flush  of  eve  is  dying 

On  boundless  lakes,  afar  that  shine  ; 
When  winds  amidst  the  palms  are  sighing, 

And  fragrance  breathes  from  every  pine : 
When  stars  through  cypress-boughs  are  gleaming, 

And  fireflies  wander  bright  and  free, 
Still  of  thy  harps,  thy  mountains  dreaming, 

My  thoughts,  wild  Cambria!  dwell  with  thee! 

Alone  o'er  green  savannas  roving, 

Where  some  broad  stream  in  silence  flows, 
Or  through  the  eternal  forests  moving, 

One  only  home  my  spirit  knows ! 
Sweet  land,  whence  memory  ne'er  hath  parted  ! 

To  thee  on  sleep's  light  wing  I  fly ; 
Hut  happier,  could  the  -weary  hearted 

Look  on  his  own  blue  hills,  and  dit» ' 

28* 


(330) 


NO  MORE. 

No  more  !  a  harp-string's  deep  and  breaking  tone, 

A  last  low  summer  breeze,  a  far-off  swell, 
A  dying  echo  of  rich  music  gone, 

Breathe  through  those  words — those  murmurs 
of  farewell : 

No  more  ! 

To  dwell  in  peace,  with  home  affections  bound, 
To  know  the  sweetness  of  a  mother's  voice, 

To  feel  the  spirit  of  her  love  around, 
And  in  the  blessing  of  her  eye  rejoice — 

No  more  ! 

A  dirge-like  sound  !  to  greet  the  early  friend 
Unto  the  hearth,  his  place  of  many  days  ; 

In  the  glad  song  with  kindred  lips  to  blend, 
Or  join  the  household  laughter  by  the  blaze— 

No  more  ! 

Through  woods  that  shadow'd  our  first  years  to 

rove, 

With  all  our  native  music  in  the  air ; 
To  watch  the  sunset  with  the  eyes  we  love, 
And  turn,  and  read  our  own  heart's  answei 
there — 

No  more  ' 


(331) 

Words  of  despair !  yet  earth's,  all  earth's — the  \v  oo 
Their  passion  breathes — the  desolately  deep ! 

That  sound  in  Heaven — oh !  image  then  the  flow 
Of  gladness  in  its  tones — to  part,  to  weep — 

No  more  ! 

To  watch,  in  dying  hope,  affection's  wane, 
To  see  the  beautiful  from  life  depart, 

To  wear  impatiently  a  secret  chain, 

To  waste  the  untold  riches  of  the  heart — 

No  more  ! 

Through  long,  long  years  to  seek,  to  strive,  to 

yearn 

For  human  love — and  never  quench  that  thirst, 
To  pour  the  soul  out,  winning  no  return, 
O'er  fragile  idols,  by  delusion  nursed — 

No  more  ! 

On  things  that  fail  us,  reed  by  reed,  to  lean, 
To  mourn  the  changed,  the  far  away,  the  dead  ; 

To  send  our  troubled  spirits  through  the  unseen, 
Intensely  questioning  for  treasures  fled — 

No  more  ! 

Words  of  triumphant  music — bear  we  on 

The  weight  of  life,  the  chain,  the  ungenial  air  ; 

Their  deathless  meaning,  when  our  tasks  are  done 
To  learn  in  joy ; — to  struggle,  to  despair — 

No  more  ! 


(332) 


LAST  RITES. 

By  the  mighty  minster's  bell, 
Tolling  with  a  sudden  swell ; 
By  the  colors  half-mast  high, 
O'er  the  seas  hung  mournfully  ; 

Know,  a  prince  hath  died ! 

By  the  drum's  dull  muffled  sound, 
By  the  arms  that  sweep  the  ground, 
By  the  volleying  muskets'  tone, 
Speak  ye  of  a  soldier  gone 

In  his  manhood's  pride. 

By  the  chanted  psalm  that  fills 
Reverently  the  ancient  hills, 
Learn,  that  from  his  harvests  done 
Peasants  bear  a  brother  on 
To  his  last  repose. 

By  the  pall  of  snowy  white 
Through  the  yew-trees  gleaming  bright ; 
By  the  garland  on  the  bier, 
Weep  !  a  maiden  claims  thy  tear — 
Broken  is  the  rose  ! 

Which  is  the  tenderest  rite  of  all  ? — 
Buried  virgin's  coronal, 
Requiem  o'er  the  monarch's  head, 
Farewell  gun  for  warrior  dead, 

Herdsman's  funeral  hymn  ? 


(  333  ) 

Tells  not  each  of  human  woe  ! 
Each  of  hope  and  strength  brought  low  I 
Number  each  with  holy  things, 
If  one  chastening  thought  it  brings 
Ere  life's  day  grow  dim  ! 


THE  FAREWELL  TO  THE  DEAD. 

COME  near  ! — ere  yet  the  dust 
Soil  the  bright  paleness  of  the  settled  brow, 
Look  on  your  brother  ;  and  embrace  him  now, 

In  still  and  solemn  trust ! 

Come  near ! — once  more  let  kindred  lips  be  press'd 
On  his  cold  cheek  ;  then  bear  him  to  his  rest ! 

Look  yet  on  this  young  face  ! 
"What  shall  the  beauty,  from  amongst  us  gone, 
Leave  of  its  image,  even  where  most  it  shone, 

Gladdening  its  hearth  and  race  ? 
Dim  grows  the  semblance  on  man's  heart  im- 

press'd — 
Come  near,  and  bear  the  beautiful  to  rest ! 

Ye  weep,  and  it  is  well ! 
For  tears  befit  earth's  partings  ! — Yesterday, 
Song  was  upon  the  lips  of  this  pale  clay, 

And  sunshine  seern'd  to  dwell 
Where'er    he    moved — the    welcome    and    the 

bless'd — 
Xow  gaze  !  and  bear  the  silent  unto  rest ! 


(334) 

Look  yet  on  him  whose  eye 
Meets  yours  no  more,  in  sadness  or  in  mirth  ! 
Was  he  not  fair  amidst  the  sons  of  earth, 

The  beings  born  to  die  ? —  [bless'd — 
But  not  where  death  has  power  may  love  be 
Come  near !  and  bear  ye  the  beloved  to  rest  ! 

How  may  the  mother's  heart 
Dwell  on  her  son,  and  dare  to  hope  again  ? 
The  Spring's  rich  promise  hath  been  given  in  vain, 

The  lovely  must  depart ! 
Is  he  not  gone,  our  brightest  and  our  best  ? 
Come  near  !  and  bear  the  early-call'd  to  rest ! 

Look  on  him  !  is  he  laid 

To  slumber  from  the  harvest  or  the  chase  ? — 
Too  still  and  sad  the  smile  upon  his  face  ; 

Yet  that,  even  that  must  fade  !  [guest ! — 
Death  holds  not  long  unchanged  his  fairest 
Come  near !  and  bear  the  mortal  to  his  rest ! 

His  voice  of  mirth  hath  ceased 
Amidst  the  vineyards  !  there  is  left  no  place 
For  him  whose  dust  receives  your  vain  embrace, 

At  the  gay  bridal  feast ! 

Earth  must  take  earth  to  moulder  on  her  breast ; 
Come  near !  weep  o'er  him !  bear  him  to  his  rest ! 

Yet  mourn  ye  not  as  they 

Whose  spirit's  light  is.  quench'd — for  him  the  past 
Is  seal'd.     He  may  not  fall,  he  may  not  cast 

His  birthright's  hope  away  ! 
All  is  not  here  of  our  beloved  and  bless'd — 
ueave  ye  the  sleeper  with  his  God  to  rest ' 


(335) 


A  THOUGHT  OP  THE  FUTURE. 

DREAMER!  and  would'st  thou  know 
If  love  goes  with  us  to  the  viewless  bourne  ? 
Would'st  thou  bear  hence  th'  unfathom'd  source 
of  woe 

Tn  thy  heart's  lonely  urn  ? 

What  hath  it  been  to  thee, 
That  power,  the  dweller  of  thy  secret  breast  ? 
A  dove  sent  forth  across  a  stormy  sea, 

Finding  no  place  of  rest : 

A  precious  odor  cast 

On  a  wild  stream,  that  recklessly  swept  by ; 
A  voice  of  music  utter'd  to  the  blast, 

And  winning  no  reply. 

Even  were  such  answer  thine — 
Would'st  thou   be   bless'd  ? — too   sleepless,  t<  c 

profound, 
Are  the  soul's  hidden  springs :  there  is  no  line 

Their  depth  of  love  to  sound. 

Do  not  words  faint  and  fail 
When  thou  would'st  fill  them  with  that  ocean's 

power  ? 
As  thine  own  cheek  before  high  thoughts  grows 

pale 
Tn  some  o'erwhelming  hour. 


(336) 

Dolh  not  thy  frail  form  sink 
Beneath  the  chain  that  binds  thee  to  one  spot, 
When  thy  heart  strives,  held  down  by  many  a  link, 

Where  thy  beloved  are  not  ? 

Is  not  thy  very  snul 

Oft  in  the  gush  of  powerless  blessing  shed, 
Till  a  vain  tenderness,  beyond  control, 

Bows  down  thy  weary  head  ? 

And  would'st  thou  bear  all  this — 
The  burden  and  the  shadow  of  thy  life — 
To  trouble  the  blue  skies  of  cloudless  bliss 

With  earthly  feelings'  strife  ? 

Not  thus,  not  thus — oh,  no  ! 
Not  veil'd  and  mantled  with  dim  clouds  of  care, 
That  spirit  of  my  soul  should  with  me  go 

To  breathe  celestial  air. 

But  as  the  skylark  springs 
To  its  own  sphere,  where  night  afar  is  driven, 
As  to  it:  place  the  flower-seed  findeth  wings, 

So  must  love  mount  to  heaven  ! 

Vainly  it  shall  not  strive 

There  on  weak  words  to  pour  a  stream  of  fire ; 
Thought  unto  thought  shall  kindling  impulse  give, 

As  light  might  wake  a  lyre. 

And  oh  !  its  blessings  there,  [head, 

Shower'd  like  rich  balsam  forth  on  some  deai 
Powerless  no  more,  a  gift  shall  surely  bear, 

A  joy  of  sunlight  shed. 


(  337  ) 

Lot  me,  then — let  me  dream 
That  love  goes  with  us  to  the  shore  unknown ', 
So  o'er  its  burning  tears  a  heavenly  gleam 

In  mercy  shall  be  thrown  ! 


TROUBADOUR  SONG. 

THE  warrior  cross'd  the  ocean's  foam 

For  the  stormy  fields  of  war ; 
The  maid  was  left  in  a  smiling  home 

And  a  sunny  land  afar. 

His  voice  was  heard  where  javelin  showers 

Pour'd  on  the  steel-clad  line  ; 
Her  step  was  'midst  the  summer  flowers, 

Her  seat  beneath  the  vine. 

His  shield  was  cleft,  his  lance  was  riven, 
And  the  red  blood  stain'd  his  crest ; 

While  she — the  gentlest  wind  of  heaven, 
Might  scarcely  fan  her  breast. 

Yet  a  thousand  arrows  pass'd  him  by, 
And  again  he  cross'd  the  seas  ; 

But  she  had  died  as  roses  die. 
That  perish  with  a  breeze. 

As  roses  die,  when  the  blast  is  come 
For  all  things  bright  and  fair — 

There  was  death  within  the  smiling  home- 
How  had  death  found  her  there  ? 
29 


^338) 


EVENING  PRAYER  AT  A  GIRL'S 
SCHOOL. 

HUSH  !  'tis  a  holy  hour — the  quiet  room 

Seems  like  a  temple,  while  yon  soft  lamp  sheds 
A  faint  and  starry  radiance,  through  the  gloom 
And  the  sweet  stillness,  down  on  fair  young 

heads, 
With  all  their   clust'ring   locks,   untouch'd   by 

care, 

And  bow'd,  as  flowers  are  bow'd  with  night,  in 
prayer ! 

Gaze     on — 'tis    lovely  ! — Childhood's    lip    and 

cheek, 
Mantling     beneath      its      earnest     brow     of 

thought — 
Gaze — yet  what  seest    thou  in  those  fair  and 

meek, 
And     fragile    things,    as    but    for    sunshine 

wrought ! 

Thou  seest  what  grief  must  nurture  for  the  sky, 
What  death  must  fashion  for  eternity ! 

O !  joyous  creatures !  that  will  sink  to  rest, 
Lightly,  when  those  pure  orisons  are  done. 

As  birds  with  slumber's  honey-dew  opprest. 
'Midst  the  dim  folded  leaves,  at  set  of  sun — 

Lift  up  your  hearts!  though  yet  no  sorrow  lies 

Dark  in  the  summer-heaven  of  those  clear  eyes. 


(  339  ) 

Though  fresh  within  your  breasts  th'  untroubled 

springs 

Of  hope  make  melody  where'er  ye  tread, 
A-iid  o'er  your  sleep  bright  shadows,  from  the 

wings 

Of  spirits  visiting  but  youth  be  spread ; 
Yet  in  those  flute-like  voices,  mingling  low, 
Is  woman's  tenderness — how  soon  her  woe  ! 

Her  lot  is  on  you — silent  tears  to  weep, 

And  patient  smiles  to  wear  through  suffering's 
hour, 

And  sunless  riches,  from  affection's  deep, 
To  pour  on  broken  reeds — a  wasted  shower ! 

And  to  make  idols,  and  to  find  them  clay, 

And  to  bewail  that  worship — therefore  pray ! 

Her  lot  is  on  you — to  be  found  untired, 
Watching  the  stars  out  by  the  bed  of  pain, 

With  a  pale  cheek,  and  yet  a  brow  inspired, 
A  true  heart  of  hope,  though  hope  be  vain ! 

Meekly  to  bear  with  wrong,  to  cheer  decay, 

And,  oh  !  to  love  through  all  things — therefore 
pray ; 

And  take  the  thought  of  this  calm  vesper  time, 
With  its  low  murmuring  sounds  and  silvery 

light, 
On  through    the    dark    days  fading  from  their 

prime, 
As   a   sweet   dew  to  keep  your   souls   from 

blight  ; 

Earth  will  forsake — O  !  happy  to  have  given 
Th'  unbroken  heart's  first  fragrance  unto  Heaven. 


{  340  ) 


THE  CROSS  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

IN  the  silence  and  grandeur  of  midnight  I  tread, 
Wliere    savannas,    in    boundless    magnificence. 

spread, 
And  bearing  sublimely  their  snow-wreaths  on 

high, 
The  far  Cordilleras  unite  with  the  sky. 

The    fir-tree  waves   o'er   me,  the   fireflies'  red 

light, 
With  its  quick-glancing  splendor  illumines  the 

night ; 
And  I  read  in  each  tint  of  the  skies  and  the 

earth, 
How   distant  my  steps   from  the  land  of  my 

birth. 

But   to   thee,    as    thy   lode-stars    resplendently 

burn, 
In  their  clear  depths  of  blue,  with  devotion   I 

turn, 
Bright  Cross  of  the  South  !  and  beholding  thee 

shine, 
Scarce  regret  the  loved  land  of   the  olive  and 

vine. 

Thou  recallest  the  ages  when  first  o'er  the  main 
My  fathers  unfolded  the  ensign  of  Spain, 
And  planted  their  faith  in  the  regions  that  see 
Its  unperishing  symbol  emblazon'd  in  thee 


(341)  ^ 

EIow  oft  in  their  course  o'er  the  oceans  unknown, 
Where  all  was  mysterious,  and  awful,  and  lone, 
Hath  their  spirit  been  cheer'd  by  thy  light,  when 

the  deep 
Reflected  its  brilliance  in  tremulous  sleep ! 

As   the   vision    that   rose    to    the    Lord  of   the 

world, 
When    first    his    bright   banner   of    faith   was 

unftni'd ; 
Even  such,  to  the  heroes  of  Spain,  when  their 

prow 
Made  the  billows  the  path  of.  their  glory,  wert 

thou. 

And  to  me,  as  I  traversed  the  world  of  the  west, 
Through  deserts  of  beauty  in  stillness  that  rest, 
By  forests  and  rivers  untamed  in  their  pride, 
Thy  hues  have  a  language,  thy  course  is  a  guide. 

Shine  on — my  own  land  is  a  far-distant  spot, 
And  the  stars  of  thy  spheres  can  enlighten  it  not ; 
And  the  eyes  that  I  love,  though  e'en  now  they 

may  be 
O'er  the  firmament  wandering,  can  gaze  not  on 

thee  ! 

But  thou  to  my  thoughts  art  a  pure  blazing  shrine, 
A  fount  of  bright  hopes  and  of  visions  divine  ; 
And  my  soul,  as  an  eagle  exulting  and  free, 
Soars  high  o'er  the  Andes  to  mingle  with  thee 
29* 


(342) 


THE  CHARMED  PICTURE. 

THINE  eyes  are  charm'd — thine  earnest  eyes— 

Thou  image  of  the  dead ! 
A  spell  within  their  sweetness  lies, 

A  virtue  thence  is  shed. 

Oft  in  their  meek  blue  light  enshrined, 

A  blessing  seems  to  be, 
And  sometimes  there  my  wayward  mind 

A  still  reproach  can  see. 

And  sometimes  Pity — soft  and  deep, 

And  quivering  through  a  tear  ; 
Even  as  if  Love  in  Heaven  could  weep, 

For  Grief  left  drooping  here. 

And  oh  !  my  spirit  needs  that  balm, 

Needs  it  'midst  fitful  mirth  ; 
And  in  the  night-hour's  haunted  calm, 

And  by  the  lonely  hearth. 

Look  on  me  thus,  when  hollow  praise 

Hath  made  the  weary  pine 
For  one  true  tone  of  other  days, 

One  glance  of  love  like  thine ! 

Look  on  me  thus,  when  sudden  glee 

Bears  my  quick  heart  along, 
On  wings  that  struggle  to  be  free, 

As  bursts  of  skylark  song. 


{  343) 

In  vain,  in  vain !  too  soon  are  felt 

The  wounds  they  cannot  flee  , 
Better  in  childlike  tears  to  melt, 

Pouring  my  soul  on  thee  ! 

Sweet  face  that  o'er  my  childhood  shone, 

Whence  is  thy  power  of  change, 
Thus  ever  shadowing  back  my  own, 

The  rapid  and  the  strange  ? 

Whence  are  they  charm'd— those  earnest  eyes? 

— I  know  the  mystery  well ! 
In  mine  own  trembling  bosom  lies 

The  spirit  of  the  spell ! 

Of  Memory,  Conscience,  Love,  'tis  born— 

Oh  !  change  no  longer,  thou  ! 
Forever  be  the  blessing  worn 

On  thy  pure  thoughtful  brow  I 


THE  AGED  INDIAN. 

WARRIORS  !  my  noon  of  life  is  past, 
The  brightness  of  my  spirit  flown  ; 
I  crouch  before  the  wintry  blast, 
Amidst  my  tribe  I  dwell  alone  ; 
The  heroes  of  my  youth  are  fled, 
They  rest  among  the  warlike  dead 


(344) 

Ye  slumberers  of  the  narrow  cave  ! 

My  kindred-chiefs  in  days  of  yore  ! 

Ye  fill  an  unremember'd  grave, 

Your  fame,  your  deeds,  are  known  no  more. 

The  records  of  your  wars  are  gone, 

Your  names  forgot  by  all  but  one. 

Soon  shall  that  one  depart  from  earth, 
To  join  the  brethren  of  his  prime  ; 
Then  will  the  memory  of  your  birth/ 
Sleep  with  the  hidden  things  of  time. 
With  him,  ye  sons  of  former  days ! 
Fades  the  last  glimmering  of  your  praise. 

His  eyes,  that  hail'd  your  spirits'  frame, 
Still  kindling  in  the  combat's  shock, 
Have  seen,  since  darkness  veil'd  your  frame, 
Sons  of  the  desert  and  the  rock ! 
Another,  and  another  race, 
Rise  to  the  battle  and  the  chase. 

Descendants  of  the  mighty  dead  ! 
Fearless  of  heart  and  firm  of  hand  ! 
O  !  let  me  join  their  spirits  fled, 
O  !  send  me  to  their  shadowy  land. 
Age  hath  not  tamed  Ontara's  heart, 
He  shrinks  not  from  the  friendly  dart. 

These  feet  no  more  can  chase  the  deer, 
The  glory  of  this  arm  is  flown  : — 
Why  should  the  feeble  linger  here, 
When  all  the  pride  of  life  is  gone  ? 
Warriors !  why  still  the  stroke  deny, 
Think  ye  Ontara  fears  to  die  ? 


(345) 

He  fear'd  not  in  his  flower  of  days, 
When  strong  to  stem  the  torrent's  force, 
When  through  the  desert's  pathless  maze 
His  way  was  as  an  eagle's  course  ! 
When  war  was  sunshine  to  his  sight, 
And  the  wild  hurricane,  delight ! 

Shall  then  the  warrior  tremble  now ! 
Now  when  his  envied  strength  is  o'er  i 
Hung  on  the  pine  his  idle  bow, 
His  pirogue  useless  on  the  shore  ? 
When  age  hath  dimm'd  his  fading   eye, 
Shall  he,  the  joyless,  fear  to  die  ? 

Sons  of  the  brave  !  delay  no  more, 
The  spirits  of  my  kindred  call  ; 
'Tis  but  one  pang,  and  all  is  o'er! 
Oh  !  bid  the  aged  cedar  fall ! 
To  join  the  brethren  of  his  prime, 
The  mighty  of  departed  time. 


THE  VICTOR. 

MIGHTY  ones,  Love  and  Death  ! 
Ye  are  the  strong  in  this  world  of  ours,  [flowers, 
Yc  meet  at  the  banquets,  ye  dwell  'midst  the 
-Which  hath  the  conqueror's  wreath  ? 

Thou  art  the  victor,  Love  ! 
Thou  art  the  fearless,  the  crown'd,  the  free, 
The  strength  of  the  battle  is  given  to  thee, 

The  spirit  from  above  ! 


(346) 

Thou  hast  look'd  on  Death,  and  smil'd ! 
Thou  hast  borne  up  the  reed-like  and  fragile 

form, 
Through  the  waves  of  the  fight,  through  the 

rush  of  the  storm, 
On  field,  and  flood,  and  wild ! 

No  ! — thou  art  the  victor,  Death  ! 
Thou  comest,  and  where  is  that  which  spoke, 
From  the  depths  of  the  eye,  when  the  spirit  woke  ? 

— Gone  with  the  fleeting  breath ! 

Thou  comest — and  what  is  left 
Of  all  that  loved  us,  to  say  if  aught 
Yet  loves — yet  answers  the  burning  thought 

Of  the  spirit  lone  and  reft  ? 

Silence  is  where  thou  art ! 
Silently  there  must  kindred  meet, 
No  smile  to  cheer,  and  no  voice  to  greet, 

No  bounding  of  heart  to  heart  ! 

Boast  not  thy  victory,  Death  ! 
It  is  but  as  the  cloud's  o'er  the  sunbeam's  power, 
It  is  but  as  the  winter's  o'er  leaf  and  flower, 

That  slumber,  the  snow  beneath. 

It  is  but  as  a  tyrant's  reign 
O'er  the  voice  and  the  lip  which  he  bids  be  still 
Hut  the  fiery  thought  and  the  lofty  will, 

Are  not  for  him  to  chain ! 

They  shall  soar  his  might  above  ! 
And  thus  with  the  root  whence  affection  springs, 
Though  buried,  it  is  not  of  mortal  things — 

Thou  art  the  victor,  Love  ! 


(347) 


THE  DIAL  OF  FLOWERS. 

'TWAS  a  lovely  thought  to  mark  the  hours, 

As  they  floated  in  light  away, 
By  the  opening  and  the  folding  flowers, 

That  laugh  to  the  summer's  day. 

Thus  had  each  moment  its  own  rich  hue, 

And  its  graceful  cup  and  bell, 
In  whose  color'd  vase  might  sleep  the  dew, 

Like  a  pearl  in  an  ocean-shell. 

To  such  sweet  signs  might  the  time  have  flow'd 

In  a  golden  current  on, 
Ere  from  the  garden,  man's  first  abode, 

^The  glorious  guests  were  gone. 

So  might  the  days  have  been  brightly  told — 
Those  days  of  song  and  dreams — 

When  shepherds  gather'd  their  flocks  of  old 
By  the  blue  Arcadian  streams. 

So  in  those  isles  of  delight,  that  rest 

Far  off  in  a  breezeless  main. 
Which  many  a  bark  with  a  weary  quest, 

Has  sought,  but  still  in  vain. 

Yet  is  not  life,  in  its  real  flight, 

Mark'd  thus — even  thus — on  earth, 

By  the  closing  of  one  hope's  delight, 
And  another's  crentle  birth  ? 


Oh  !  let  us  live,  so  that  flower  hy  flower, 
Shutting  in  turn  may  leave 

A  lingerer  still  for  the  sunset  hour, 
A  charm  for  the  shaded  eve. 


THE  TREASURES  OF  THE  DEEP. 

WHAT  hidest  thou  in  thy  treasure-caves  and  cells  ? 

Thou  hollow-sounding  and  mysterious  main ! — • 

Pale  glistering  pearls,  and  rainbow-color'd  shells, 

Bright  things  which  gleam  unwreck'd  of  and 

in  vain  ! — 

Keep,  keep  thy  riches,  melancholy  sea ! 
We  ask  not  such  from  thee. 

Yet  more,  the  depths  have  more  ! — what  wealth 

untold, 
Far  down,  and  shining  through  their  stillness 

lies ! 
Thou  hast  the  starry  gems,  the  burning  gold, 

W  on  from  ten  thousand  royal  Argosies !  [main ! 
Sweep  o'er  thy  spoils,  thou  wild  and  wrathful 
Earth  claims  not  these  again. 

Yet  more,  the  depths  have  more ! — thy  waves 

have  roll'd 

Above  the  cities  of  a  world  gone  by ! 
Sand  hath  fill'd  up  the  palaces  of  old, 

Sea-weeds  o'ergrown  the  halls  of  revelry. — 
Dash  o'er  them  ocean  !  in  thy  scornful  play  ' 
Man  yields  them  to  decay. 


(349) 

Yet  more  !    the  billows  and   the    depths   have 

more  ! 
High  hearts  and  brave   are   gather'd  to  thy 

breast ! 
They  hear  but  now  the  booming  waters  roar, 

The  battle-thunders  will  not  break  their  rest- 
Keep  thy  red  gold  and  gems,  thou  stormy  grave ! 
Give  back  the  true  and  brave  ! 

Give  back  the  lost  and  lovely ! — those  for  whom 
The  place  was  kept  at  board  and  hearth  so 

long  ! 

The  prayer  went  up  through  midnight's  breath- 
less gloom, 

And   the  vain  yearning  woke    'midst   festal 
song  !  [thrown — 

Hold    fast    thy   buried   isles,  thy   towers  o'er- 
But  all  is  not  thine  own. 

To  thee  the  love  of  woman  hath  gone  down, 
Dark   flow  thy  tides   o'er   manhood's   noble 

head, 
O'er  youth's  bright  locks,  and  beauty's  flowery 

crown  ; 

Yet   must    thou    hear   a  voice — Restore  the 
dead  !  [thee  !— - 

Earth  shall   reclaim,  her  precious   things   from 
Restor  3  the  dead,  thou  sea ! 

30 


^350) 


TRIUMPHANT  MUSIC. 

WHEREFORE  and  whither  bear'st   thou  up  my 

spirit, 
On  eagle-wings,   through   every  plume    thai 

thrill  ? 

It  hath  no  crown  of  victory  to  inherit — 
Be  still,  triumphant  harmony  !  be  still ! 

Thine  are  no  sounds  for  earth,   thus   proudly 
swelling 

Into  rich  floods  of  joy : — it  is  but  pain 
To  mount  so  high,  yet  find  on  high  no  dwelling, 

To  sink  so  fast,  so  heavily  again  ! 

No  sounds  for  earth  ? — Yes,  to  young  chieftain 

dying 

On  his  own  battle  field  at  set  of  sun, 
With  his  freed  country's  banner  o'er  him  flying, 
Well   might'st   thou   speak   of    fame's    high 
guerdon  won. 

No   sounds  ,for    earth  ? — Yes,    for   the    martyr 
leading 

Unto  victorious  death  serenely  on, 
For  patriot  by  his  rescued  altars  bleeding, 

Thou  hast  a  voice  in  each  majestic  tone. 

But  speak  not  thus  to  one  whose  heart  is  beating 
Against  life's  narrow  bound,  in  conflict  vain  ! 


( 351 ) 

For  power,  for  joy,  high  hope,  and  rapturous 

greeting, 

Thou  wakest  lone  thirst — be  hush'd,  exulting 
strain  ! 

Be    hush'd,    or    breathe    of    grief! — of    exile 

yearnings 

Under  the  willows  of  the  stranger-shore  ! 
Breathe  of  the  soul's  untold  and  restless  burn- 
ings, 

For   looks,   tones,    footsteps,    that   return   no 
more. 

Breathe  of  deep  love — a  lonely  vigil  keeping 
Through  the  night  hours,  o'er  wasted  wealth 

to  pine  ; 
Rich  thoughts  and  sad,  like  faded  rose-leaves 

heaping, 
'     In  the  shut  heart,  at  once  a  tomb  and  shrine. 

Or  pass  as  if  thy  spirit-notes  came  sighing 
From  worlds  beneath  some  blue  Elysian  sky  ; 

Breathe   of   repose,   the    pure,    the   bright,   the 

undying — 
Of  joy  no  more — bewildering  harmony ! 


( 352 ) 


NIGHT  HYMN  AT  SEA. 

NIGHT  sinks  on  the  wave, 

Hollow  gusts  are  sighing, 
Sea  birds  to  their  cave 

Through  the  gloom  are  flying, 
Oh  !  should  storms  come  sweeping, 
Thou,  in  Heaven  unsleeping, 
O'er  thy  children  vigil  keeping, 
Hear,  hear,  and  save  ! 

Stars  look  o'er  the  sea, 

Few,  and  sad,  and  shrouded ! 

Faith  our  light  must  be, 
When  all  else  is  clouded. 

Thou,  whose  voice  came  thrilling, 

Wind  and  billow  stilling, 

Speak  once  more  !  our  prayer  fulfiiling- 
Power  dwells  with  Thee  ! 


(353) 


SONNETS,  DEVOTIONAL  AND   MEMORIAL. 

I.— THE  SACRED  HARP. 

How  shall  the  harp  of  poesy  regain 

That  old  victorious  tone  of  prophet-years, 
A  spell  divine  o'er  guilt's  perturbing  fears, 

And  all  the  hovering  shadows  of  the  brain  ? 

Dark  evil  wings  took  flight  before  the  strain, 
And  showers  of  holy  quiet,  with  its  fall, 
Sank  on  the  soul : — Oh !  who  may  now  recall 

The  mighty  music's  consecrated  reign  ? — 

Spirit  of  God !  whose  glory  once  o'erhung 
A  throne,  the  Ark's  dread  cherubim  between, 
So  let  thy  presence  brood,  though  now  unseen, 

O'er  those  two  powers  by  whom  the  harp  is 
strung — 

Feeling  and  Thought ! — till  the  rekindled  chords 

Give  the  long-buried    tone   back    to    immortal 
words ! 


II.— TO  A  FAMILY  BIBLE. 

WHAT  household  thoughts  around  thee,  as  theh 

shrine, 

Cling  reverently  ! — of  anxious  looks  beguiled, 
My  mother's  eyes,  upon  thy  page  divine, 
Each  day  were  bent ; — her  accents,  gravely  mild, 
Breathed  out  thy  lore :  whilst  I,  a  dreamy  child, 
30* 


(354J 

Wander'd  on  breeze-like  fancies  oft  away, 
To  some  lone  tuft  of  gleaming  spring-flowers  wild, 
Some  fresh-discover'd  nook  for  woodland  play, 
Some  secret  nest : — yet  would  the  solemn  Word 
At  times,  with  kindlings  of  young  wonder  heaid, 

Fall  on  my  waken'd  spirit,  there  to  be 
A  seed  not  lost ; — for  which,  in  darker  years, 
0  book  of  Heaven !  I  pour,  with  grateful  tear?, 

Heart  blessings  on  the  holy  dead  and  thee ! 


III.— REPOSE  OF  A  HOLY  FAMILY 

UNDER  a  palm  tree,  by  the  green  old  Nile, 

Lull'd  on  his  mother's  breast,  the  fair  Child  lies, 
With  dove-like  breathings,  and  a  tender  smile, 

Brooding  above  the  slumber  of  his  eyes, 
While,  through  the  stillness  of  the  burning  skies, 

Lo !  the  dread  works  of  Egypt's  buried  kings, 
Temple  and  pyramid,  beyond  him  rise, 

Regal  and  still  as  everlasting  things ! — 
Vain  pomps !  from  Him,  with  that  pure  flowery 
cheek, 

Soft  shadow'd  by  his  mother's  drooping  head, 
A  new-born  Spirit,  mighty,  and  yet  meek, 

O'er  the  whole  world   like  vernal    air    shall 

spread ! 

And  bid  all  earthly  Grandeurs  cast  the  crown, 
Before  the  suffering  and  the  lowly,  down. 


(355) 


.V    -PICTURE    OF    THE     INFANT     CHRIST    WITH 
FLOWERS. 

ALL    the    bright    hues    from   eastern   garlands 

glowing, 

Round  the  young  child  luxuriantly  are  spread ; 
Gifts,  fairer  far  than  Magian  kings,  bestowing 
In  adoration,  o'er  his  cradle  shed, 
Roses,  deep-fill'd  with  rich  midsummer's  red, 
Circle  his  hands ;  but,  in  his  grave  sweet  eye, 
Thought  seems  e'en  now  to  wake,  and  prophesy 
Of  ruder  coronals  for  that  meek  head. 
And  thus  it  was !  a  diadem  of  thorn 

Earth  gave  to  Him  who  mantled  her  with 

flowers, 
To  him  who  pour'd  forth  blessings  in  soft 

showers 

O'er  all  her  paths,  a  cup  of  bitter  scorn ! 
And  we  repine,  for  whom  that  cup  He  took, 
O'er  blooms  that  mock'd  our  hope,  o'er  idols  that 

forsook  ! 


V.— ON  A  REMEMBERED  PICTURE  OF  CHRIST. 

1  MET  that  image  on  a  mirthful  day 

Of  youth  ;  and,  sinking  with  a  still'd  surprise, 

The  pride  of  life,  before  those  holy  eyes, 
In  my  quick  heart  died  thoughtfully  away, 
Abash 'd  to  mute  confession  of  a  sway, 

Awful,  though  meek ;  and  now,  that  from  the 
strings 

Of  my  soul's  lyre,  the  tempest's  mighty  wings 
Have  struck  forth  tones  which  then  awakeri'd  lay ; 


(356) 

Now,  that  around  the  deep  life  of  my  mind, 
Affections,  deathless  as  itself,  have  twined, 

Oft  does  the  pale  bright  vision  still  float  by ; 
But  more  divinely  sweet,  and  speaking  now 
Of  One  whose  pity,  throned  on  that  sad  brow, 

Sounded    all    depths   of    love,    grief,    death, 
humanity ! 

VI.— THE  CHILDREN  WHOM  JESUS  BLEST. 

HAPPY  were  they,  the  mothers,  in  whose  sight 

Ye  grew,  fair  children  !  hallow'd  from  that 
hour 

By   your   Lord's   blessing !    surely   thence   a 

shower 

Of  heavenly  beauty,  a  transmitted  light 
Hung  on  your  brows  and  eyelids,  meekly  bright, 

Through  all  the  after  years,  which  saw  ye  move 
Lowly,  yet  still  majestic,  in  the  might, 

The  conscious  glory  of  the  Saviour's  love ' 
And  honor'd  be  all  childhood,  for  the  sake 

Of  that  high  love !     Let  reverential  care 
Watch  to  behold  the  immortal  spirit  wake, 

And  shield  its  first  bloom  from  unholy  air  ; 
Owning,  in  each  young  suppliant  glance,  the  sign 
Of  claims  upon  a  heritage  divine. 


VII.— MOUNTAIN  SANCTUARIES. 

A  CHILD  'midst  ancient  mountains  I  have  stood, 
Where  the  wild  falcons  make  their  lordly  nest 

On  high.     The  spirit  of  the  solitude 
Fell  solemnly  upon  my  infant  breast. 


(357) 

Though  then  I  pray'd  not ;  but  deep  thoughts 

have  press'd 

Into  my  being  since  it  breathed  that  air ; 
Nor  could  I  now  one  moment  live  the  guest 
Of  such  dread  scenes,  without  the  springs  of 

prayer 

O'erflowing  all  my  soul.     No  ministers  rise 
Like  them  in  pure  communion  with  the  skies, 
Vast,  silent,  open  unto  night  and  day ; 

So  might  the  o'erburden'd  Son  of  man  have 

felt, 

When  turning  where  inviolate  stillness  dwelt, 
He  sought  high  mountains,  there  apart  to  pray. 


VIII.— THE  LILIES  OF  THE  FIELD. 

FLOWERS  !  when  the  Saviour's  calm  benignant 

eye 

Fell  on  your  gentle  beauty — when  from  you 
That  heavenly  lesson  from  all  hearts  he  drew, 

Eternal,  universal,  as  the  sky — 

Then,  in  the  bosom  of  your  purity, 
A  voice  He  set.  as  in  a  temple  shrine, 

That   life's   quick    travellers   ne'er   might   pass 

you  by, 
Unwarn'd  of  that  sweet  oracle  divine. 

And  though  too  oft  its  low,  celestial  sound. 

By  the  harsh  notes  of  work-day  Care  is  drown  d 

And  the  loud  steps  of  vain  unlistening  Haste, 
Yet,  the  great  ocean  hath  no  tone  of  power 
Mightier  to  reach  the  soul,  in  thought's  husl.  d 
hour, 

Than  yours,  ye  Lilies !  chosen  thus  and  graced. 


(  358  ) 


IX.— THE  BIRDS  OF  THE  AIR. 

YE  too,  the  free  and  fearless  Birds  of  the  air, 
Were  charged  that  hour  on  missionary  wing. 

The  same  bright  lesson  o'er  the  seas  to  bear, 
Heaven-guided  wanderers  with  the   winds  of 


spring 


Sing  on,  before  the  storm  and  after,  sing ! 

A  call  us  to  your  echoing  woods  away 
From  worldly  cares  ;  and  bid  our  spirits  bring 

Faith  to  imbibe  deep  wisdom  from  your  lay. 
So  may  those  blessed  vernal  strains  renew 
Childhood,  a  childhood  yet  more  pure  and  true 

E'en    than    the    first,   within    th'    awaken'd 

mind : 

While  sweetly,  joyously,  they  tell  of  life 
That  knows  no  doubts,  no  questionings,  no  strife> 

But  hangs  upon  its  God,  unconsciously  resign'd. 


X.— THE   RAISING  OF  THE  WIDOWS  SON. 

HE  that  was  dead  rose  up  and  spoke — He  spoke  ! 
Was  it  of  that  majestic  world  unknown  ! 
Those  words  which  first  the  bier's  dread  silence 

broke, 

Came  they  with  revelation  in  each  tone  ? 
Were  the  far  cities  of  the  nations  gone, 

The  solemn  halls  of  consciousness  or  sleep, 
For  man  uncurtain'd  by  that  spirit  lone, 

Back  from   their   portal    summon 'd   o'er   the 
deep  ? 


(  351) ) 

Be  hush'd,  my  soul !  the  veil  of  darkness  lay 
Still  drawn : — thy  Lord  call'd    back  the  voice 

departed, 

To  spread  his  truth,  to  comfort  his  weak-hearted, 
Not  to  reveal  the  mysteries  of  its  way. 
Oh  !  take  that  lesson  home  in  silent  faith, 
Put  on  submissive  strength  to  meet,  not  question 

death ! 


XI.— THE  OLIVE  TREE. 

THE    Palm — the    Vine — the    Cedar — each  hath 

power 

To  bid  fair  Oriental  shapes  glance  by, 
And  each  quick  glistening  of  the  Laurel  bower 
Wafts  Grecian  images  o'er  fancy's  eye. 
But  thou,  pale  Olive  ! — in  thy  branches  lie 
Far  deeper  spells  than  prophet-grove  of  old 
Might  e'er  enshrine  : — I  could  not  hear  thee  sigh 
To  the  wind's  faintest  whisper,  nor  behold 
One  shiver  of  thy  leaves'  dim  silvery  green, 
Without  high  thoughts  and  solemn,  of  that  scene 
When,  in  the  garden,  the  Redeemer  pray'd — 
When  pale  stars  look'd  upon  his  fainting  head, 
And  angels,  ministering  in  silent  dread, 
Trembled,    perchance,    within    thy    trembling 

shade. 


(360) 


XII.— THE  DARKNESS  OF  THE  CRUCIFIXION. 

ON  Judah's  hills  a  weight  of  darkness  hung, 
Felt  shudderingly  at  noon  : — the  land  had  driven 
A  Guest  divine  back  to  the  gates  of  Heaven, 
A  life,  whence  all  pure  founts  of  healing  sprung, 
All    grace,   all    truth : — and,   when    to    anguish 

wrung, 

From  the  sharp  cross  th'  enlightening  spirit  fled. 
O'er  the  forsaken  earth  a  pall  of  dread 
By  the  great  shadow  of  that  death  was  flung. 
O  Saviour  !  O  Atoner !  thou  that  fain 
Wouldst  make  thy  temple  in  each  human  breast, 
Leave  not  such  darkness  in  my  soul  to  reign, 
Ne'er  may  thy  presence  from  its  depths  depart, 
Chas  d    thence  by  guilt ! — Oh  !   turn  not  Ihou 

away, 
The   bright   and   morning    star,    my   guide    to 

perfect  day ! 


XIII.— PLACES  OF  WORSHIP. 

SPIRIT  !  whose  life-sustaining  presence  fills 
Air,  ocean,  central  depths,  by  man  untried, 
Thou  for  thy  worshippers  hast  sanctified 
All  place,  all  time !     The  silence  of  the  hills 
Breathes  veneration  : — founts  and  choral  rills 
Of  thee  are  murmuring : — to  its  inmost  glade 
The  living  forest  with  thy  whisper  thrills, 
And  there  is  holiness  on  every  shade. 
Yet  must  the  thoughtful  soul  of  man  invest 
With  dearer  consecration  those  pure  fanes, 


(HU) 

Which,  sever'd  from  all  sound  of  earth's  unrest, 
Hear  naught  but  suppliant  or  adoring  strains 
Rise    heavenward. — Ne'er   may   rock    or    cave 

possess 

Their  claim  on  human  hearts  to  solemn  tender- 
ness. 


XIV.— OLD  CHURCH  IN  AN  ENGLISH  PARK 

CROWNING  a  flowery  slope,  it  stood  alone 
In  gracious  sanctity.     A  bright  rill  wound, 
Caressingly,  about  the  holy  ground  ; 
A.nd  warbled,  with  a  never-dying  tone, 
Amidst  the  tombs.     A  hue  of  ages  gone 
Seenvd,  from  that  ivied  porch,  that  solemn  gleam 
Of  tower  and  cross,  pale  quivering  on  the  stream, 
O'er  all  th'  ancestral  woodlands  to  be  thrown, 
And  something  yet  more  deep.     The  air  was 

fraught 
With     noble    memories,    whispering    many    a 

thought 

Of  England's  fathers  ;  lofty  serene, 
They   that   had   toil'd,   watch'd,   struggled,    to 

secure, 

Within  such  fabrics,  worship  free  and  pure, 
Reign'd  there,  the  o'ershadowing  spirits  of  the 

scene. 


(362 


XV.— A  CHURCH  IN  NORTH  WALES. 
BLESSINGS  be  round  it  still !  that  aleamina;  fane, 

\^  c?  / 

Lo\v  in  its  mountain  glen  !  old  mossy  trees 
Mellow  the  sunshine  through  the  untinted  pans, 
And  oft,  borne  in  upon  some  fitful  breeze, 
The  deep  sound  of  the  ever-pealing  seas, 
Filling  the  hollows  with  its  anthem-tone, 
There    meets    the    voice    of    psalms ! — yet    no; 

alone 

For  memories  lulling  to  the  heart  as  these, 
1  bless  thee,   'midst  thy  rocks,  grey  house  of 

prayer ! 

But  for  their  sakes  who  unto  thee  repair 
From  the  hill-cabins  and  the  ocean  shore. 
Oh !  may  the  fisher  and  the  mountaineer, 
Words  to  sustain  earth's  toiling  children  hear, 
Within  thy  lowly  walls  for  evermore  ! 


XVI.— LOUISE  SCHEPLER. 

A  FEARLESS  journeyer  o'er  the  mountain  snow 
Wert  thou,  Louise  !  the  sun's  decaying  light, 
Oft,  with  its  latest  melancholy  glow, 
Hedden'd  thy  steep  wild  way  :  the  starry  nighi 
Oft  met  thee,  crossing  some  lone  eagle's  height, 
Piercing  some  dark  ravine  :  and  many  a  dell 
Knew,  through  its  ancient  rock-recesses  well, 
Thy  gentle   presence,   Avhich  hath  made  them 

bright 
Oft  in  mid  storms  ;  oh  !  not  with  beauty's  eye, 


(363) 

NTor  the  groud  glance  of  genius  keenly  burning ; 

No  !  pilgrim  of  unwearying  charity  ! 

Thy    spell    was    love — the    mountain    deserts 

turning 
To    blessed    realms,    where    stream    and    rock 

rejoice, 
When  the  glad  human  soul  lifts  a  thanksgiving 

voice ' 


XVII.— TO  THE  SAME. 

FOR  thou,  a  holy  shepherdess  and  kind, 
Through  the  pine  forests,  by  the  upland  rills, 
Didst  roam  to  seek  the  children  of  the  hills, 
A  wild  neglected  flock  !  to  seek,  and  find, 
And  meekly  win  !  there  feeding  each  young  mind 
With  balms  of  heavenly  eloquence  :  not  thine, 
Daughter  of  Christ !  but  his,  whose  love  divine. 
Its  own  clear  spirit  in  thy  breast,  had  shrined , 
A  burning  light !     Oh  !  beautiful,  in  truth, 
Upon  the  mountains  are  the  feet  of  those 
Who  bear  his  tidings  !    From  thy  morn  of  youth, 
For  this  were  all  thy  journeyings,  and  the  close 
Of  that  long  path,  Heaven's  own  bright  Sabbath- 
rest, 

Must   wait  thee,   wanderer!    on   thy   Savkwi's 
breast. 


(CGI) 


RECORDS  OF  THE  SPRIXG  OF  1834 


I.— A  VERNAL  THOUGHT. 

O  FESTAL  Spring !  'midst  thy  victorious  glow, 
Far-spreading  o'er  the  kindled  woods  and  plains, 
And  streams,  that  bound  to  meet  thee  from  their 

chains, 

Well  might  there  lurk  the  shadow  of  a  woe 
For  human  hearts,  and  in  the  exulting  flow 
Of  thy  rich  sons  a  melancholy  tone, 
Were  we  of  mould  all  earthly;  we  alone 
Serer'd  from  thy  great  spell,  and  doom'd  to  go 
Farther,  still  farther,  from  our  sunny  time, 
Never  to  feel  the  breathings  of  our  prime, 
Xever  to  flower  again  ! — But  we,  O  Spring ! 
Cheerd  by  deep  spirit-whispers  not  of  earth, 
Press  to  the  regions  of -thy  heavenly  birth, 
As  here  thy  flowers  and  birds  press  on  to  blooiti 

and  sing. 


II.— TO  THE  SKY. 


FAR  from  the  rustlings  of  the  pcpJar  borgh, 
Which  o'er  my  opening  life  wild  music  made, 
Far  from  the  green  hills  with  their  heathery  glow 
A.nd    flashing    streams   whereby    my    childhood 
play'd  ; 


(365) 

In  the  dim  city,  'midst  the  sounding  flew 

Of  restless  life,  to  thee  in  love  I  turn, 

O  thou  rich  sky !  and  from  thy  splendors  learn 

How   song-birds  come   and  part,  flowers  ware 

and  blow. 

With  thee  all  shapes  of  glory  find  their  home, 
AIM?  Uiou  hast  taught  me  well,  majestic  dome ! 
By  stars,  by  sunsets,  by  soft  clouds  which  rove 
Thy  blue  expanse,  or  sleep'in  silvery  rest, 
That  Nature's  God  hath  left  no  spot  unbless'd 
With  founts  -      beauty  for  the  eye  of  love. 


III.— ON  RECORDS  OF  IMMATURE  GENIUS. 

On  !  judge  in  thoughtful  tenderness  of  those, 
Who,  richly  dower'd  for  life,  are  call'd  to  die, 
Ere  the  soul's  flame,  through  storms,  hath  won 

repose 

In  truth's  divinest  ether,  still  and  high  ! 
Let  their  mind's  riches  claim  a  trustful  sigh ! 
Deem  them  but  sad  sweet  fragments  of  a  strain, 
First  notes  of  some  yet  struggling  harmony, 
By  the  strong  rush,  the  crowding  joy  and  pain 
Of  many  inspirations  met,  and  held 
From  its  true  sphere  :— Oh  !  soon  it  might  have 

swell'd 

Majestically  forth !— Nor  doubt,  that  He, 
Whose  touch  mysterious  may  on  earth  dissolve 
Thope  links  of  music,  elsewhere  will  evolve 
Their  grand  consummate  hymn,  from  passion- 
gusts  made  free  ! 
31* 


(366) 


IV  —ON  WATCHING  THE  FLIGHT  OF  A 
SKY  LARK. 

UPWARD  and  upward  still ! — in  pearly  light 
The  clouds  are  steep'd  ;  the  vernal  spirit  sighs 
With  bliss  in  every  wind,  and  crystal  skies 
Woo  thee,  O  bird  !  to  thy  celestial  height ; 
Bird  piercing  Heaven  with  music  !  thy  free  flight 
Hath  meaning  for  all  bosoms  ;  most  of  all 
For  those  wherein  the  rapture  and  the  might 
Of  poesy  lie  deep,  and  strive,  and  burn, 
For  their  high  place  :   O  heirs  of  genius !  learn 
From  the  sky's  bird  your  way  ! — No  joy  may  fill 
Your  hearts,  no  gift  of  holy  strength  be  won 
To  bless  your  songs,  ye  children  of  the  sun ! 
Save    by  the   unswerving   flight — upward   and 
upward  still ! 


V.— A  THOUGHT  OF  THE  SEA. 

MY  earliest  memories  to  thy  shores  are  bound, 
Thy  solemn  shores,  thou  ever-chanting  main  ! 
The  first  rich  sunsets,  kindling  thought  profound 
In  my  lone  being,  made  thy  restless  plain 
As  the  vast  shining  floor  of  some  dread  fane, 
All  paved  with  glass  and  fire.    Yet,  O  blue  deep  ! 
Thou  that  no  trace  of  human  hearts  dost  keep, 
Never  to  thee  did  love  with  silvery  chain 
Draw  my  soul's  dream,  which  through  all  nature 

sought 
What  waves  deny  ; — some  bower  of  steadfast 

bliss, 


(367) 

A.  home  to  twine  with  fancy,  feeling,  thought, 
As  with  sweet  flowers : — But  chasten'd  hope  for 

this 
Now  turns  from  earth's  green  valleys  as  ft  cm 

thee, 
To  that  sole  changeless  world,  where  "there  is 

no  more  sea." 


VI.— DISTANT  SOUND  OF  THE  SEA  AT  EVENING. 

YET,  rolling  far  up  some  green  mountain  dale, 

Oft  Jet  me  hear,  as  ofttimes  I  have  heard, 

Thy  swell,  thou  deep !  when  evening  calls  the 

bird 

And  bee  to  rest ;  when  summer  tints  grow  pale, 
Seen  through  the  gathering  of  a  dewy  veil, 
And  peasant  steps  are  hastening  to  repose, 
And  gleaming  flocks  lie  down,  and  flower-cups 

close 

To  the  last  whisper  of  the  falling  gale. 
Then,  'midst  the  dying  of  all  other  sound, 
When  the  soul  hears  thy  distant  voice  profound, 
Lone-worshipping,  and  knows  that  through  the 

night 

'T  will  worship  still,  then  most  its  anthem-tone 
Speaks  to  our  being  of  the  Eternal  One, 
Who  girds  tired  natm-o  with  nnslumbering  might 


1,368) 


VII.-THE  RIVER  CLWYD  IN  NORTH  WALKS. 

0  CAMBRIAN  river,  with  slow  music  gliding 
By  pastoral  hills,  old  woods,  and  ruiu'd  towers  ; 
Now  'midst  thy  reeds  and  golden  willows  hiding, 
Now    gleaming    forth    by    some    rich    bank    of 

flowers ; 

Long  flow'd  the  current  of  my  life's  clear  hours 
Onward  with  thine,  whose  voice  yet  haunts  my 

dream, 
Though  time  and  change,  and  other  mightier 

powers, 
Far   from   thy   side    have    borne    me.       Thou, 

smooth  stream ! 

Art  winding  still  thy  sunny  meads  along, 
Murm'ring  to  cottage  and  grey  hall  thy  song, 
Low,  sweet,  unchanged.     My  being's  tide  hath 

pass'd 
Through    rocks    and    storms ;    yet    will    I    not 

complain, 

If  thus  wrought  free  and  pure  from  earthly  stain, 
Brightly  its  waves  may  reach  their  parent-deep 

at  last. 


VIII.— ORCHARD  BLOSSOMS. 

DOTH  thy  heart  stir  within  thee  at  the  sight 
Of  orchard  blooms  upon  the  mossy  bough  ? 
Doth  their  sweet  household  smile  waft  back  the 

glow 
Of    childhood's    morn? — the-    wondering    fresh 

delight 
In  earth's  n3W  coloring,  then  all  strangely  bright. 


(  369  ) 

A.  joy  of  fairy  land  ? — Doth  some  old  nook, 
Haunted  by  visions  of  thy  first-loved  book, 
Rise  on  thy  soul,  with  faint-streak'd  blossoms 

white, 
Shower'd  o'er  the  turf,  and  the  lone  primrose 

knot, 

And  rol  in's  nest,  still  faithful  to  the  spot, 
And  the  bee's  dreamy  chime  ? — O  gentle  friend  ! 
The   world's  cold  breath,  not  Time'-,,  this  life 

bereaves 

Of  vernal  gifts — Time  hallows  what  he  leaves, 
And  will  for  us  dear  spring-memories  to  the  end. 


IX.— TO  A  DISTANT  SCENE. 

STILL  are  the  cowslips  from  thy  bosom  springing, 

0  far-off  glassy  dell  ? — and  dost  thou  see, 
When    southern    winds   first    wake    the   vernal 

singing, 

The  star-gleam  of  the  wood  anemone  ? 
.Doth  the  shy  ring-dove  haunt  thee  yet — the  bee 
Hang  on  thy  flowers  as  when  I  breathed  farewell 
To  their  wild  blooms  ?  and  round  my  beechen  tree 
Still,  in  green  softness,  doth  the  moss  bank  swell  ? 
—Oh !  strange  illusion  by  the  fond  heart  wrought, 
Whose  own  warm  life  suffuses  nature's  face  ! 
— My  being's  tide  of  many-color'd  thought 
Hath  pass'd  from  thee,  and  now,  rich,  leafy  place ! 

1  paint  thee  oft,  scarce  consciously,  a  scene, 
Silent,  forsaken,  dim,  shadow'd  by  what  hath 

been. 


(370) 


X.-A   REMEMBRANCE  OF  GRASMERE 

0  VALE  and  lake,  within  your  mountain-urn 
Smiling  so  tranquilly,  and  set  so  deep ! 
Oft  doth  your  dreamy  loveliness  return. 
Coloring  the  tender  shadows  of  my  sleep 
With  light  Elysian ;  for  the  hues  that  steep 
Your  shores  in  melting  lustre,  seem  to  float 
On  golden  clouds  from  spirit-lands  remote, 
Isles  of  the  blest ;  and  in  our  memory  keep 
Their  place  with  holiest  harmonies :  fair  scene, 
Most  loved  by  evening  and  her  dewy  star ! 
Oh !  ne'er  may  man,  with  touch  unhallow'd,  jai 
The  perfect  music  of  thy  charm  serene ! 
Still,  still  unchanged,  may  one  sweet  region  wear 
Smiles  that  subdue  the  soul  to  love,  and  tears, 
and  prayer. 


XL— THOUGHTS  CONNECTED  WITH  TREES. 

TREES,  gracious  trees !  how  rich  a  gift  ye  are, 
Crown  of  the  earth  !  to  human  hearts  and  eyes ! 
How  doth  the  thought  of  home,  in  lands  afar, 
Link'd  with  your  forms  and  kindly  whisperings 

rise  ! 

How  the  whole  picture  of  a  childhood  lies 
Oft  'midst  your  boughs  forgotten,  buried  deep ! 
Till  gazing  through  them  up  the  summer  skies 
As  hush'd  we  standr  a  breeze   perchance  may 

creep 

And  old  sweet  leaf-sounds  reach  the  inner  world 
Where  memory  coils — and  lo !  at  once  unfurl'd 


(371) 

The  past  a  glowing  scroll,  before  our  sight, 
Spreads  clear !  while  gushing  from  their  long- 

seal'd  urn 
Young     thoughts,     pure     dreams,    undoubting 

prayers  return, 
And  a  lost  mother's  eye  gives  back  its  holy  light. 


XII.— THE  SAME. 

AND  ye  are  strong  to  shelter !  all  meek  things, 
All  that  need  home  and  covert,  love  your  shade  ! 
Birds  of  shy  song,  and  low-voiced  quiet  springs, 
And  nun-like  violets,  by  the  wind  betray'd. 
Childhood  beneath  your  fresh  green  tents  hath 

play'd, 
With  his  first  primrose  wealth  :  there  love  hath 

sought 

A  veiling  gloom  for  his  unutter'd  thought  ; 
And  silent  grief,  of  day's  keen  glare  afraid, 
A  refuge  for  her  tears  ;  and  ofttimes  there 
Hath  lone  devotion  found  a  place  of  prayer, 
A  native  temple,  solemn,  hush'd,  and  dim  ; 
For  wheresoe'er  your  murm'ring  tremors  thrill 
The  woody  twilight,  there  man's  heart  hath  still 
Confess'd  a  spirit's  breath,  and  heard  a  ceaseless 

hymn. 


(372) 


X11I.— ON  READING  PAUL  AND  VIRGINIA  IN 
CHILDHOOD. 

0  GENTLE  story  of  the  Indian  isle ! 

[  loved  thee  in  my  lonely  childhood  well ; 

Ou  the  sea  shore,  when  day's  last  purple  smilo 

Slept  on  the  waters,  and  their  hollow  swell 

And  dying  cadence  let  a  deeper  spell 

Unto  thine  ocean-pictures.     'Midst  thy  palms 

And  strange  bright   birds,   my  fancy  joy'd    to 

dwell, 
And  watch  the  southern  cross  through  midnight 

calms, 

And  track  the  spicy  woods.     Yet  more  I  bless'd 
Thy  vision  of  sweet  love ;  kind,  trustful,  true, 
Lighting  the  citron  groves — a  heavenly  guest, 
With  such  pure  smiles  as  Paradise  once  knew. 
Even  then  my  young  heart  wept  o'er  the  world's 

power, 
To  reach  and  blight  that  holiest  Eden  flower. 


XIV.— A  THOUGHT  AT  SUNSET. 

STILL  that  last  look  is  solemn !  though  thy  rays, 
O  sun  !  to-morrow  will  give  back,  we  know, 
The  joy  to  nature's  heart.    Yet  through  the  glow 
Of  clouds  that  mantle  thy  decline,  our  gaze 
Tracks  thee  with  love  half  fearful  ;  and  in  days 
VVrhen  earth  too  much  adorned  thee,  what  a  swell 
Of  mournful  passion,  deepening  mighty  lays, 
Told  how  the  dying  bade  thy  light  farewell, 


(  373  ) 

0  sun  of  Greece  !  O  glorious  festal  sun  ! 

Lost,   lost  ! — for  them  thy  golden  hours  were 

done. 

And  darkness  lay  before  them !     Happier  far 
Are  we,  not  thus  to  thy  bright  wheels  enchain'd, 
Not  thus  for  thy  last  parting  unsustain'd, 
Heirs  for  a  purer  day,  with  its  unsetting  star. 


XV.— IMAGES  OF  PATRIARCHAL  LIFE. 

CALM  scenes  of  patriarchal  life ! — How  long  a 

power 

Your  unworn  pastoral  images  retain 
O'er  the  true  heart,  which  in  its  childhood's  hour 
Drank  their  pure  freshness  deep  !     The  camels' 

train 

Winding  in  patience  o'er  the  desert  plain — 
The  tent,  the  palm  tree,  the  reposing  flock, 
The  gleaming  fount,  the  shadow  of  the  rock, 
Oh !  by  how  subtle,  yet  how  strong  a  chain, 
And  in  the  influence  of  its  touch  how  bless'd, 
Are  these  things  link'd,  in  many  a  thoughtful 

breast, 

To  household  memories,  for  all  change  endear'd ' 
The  matin  bird,  the  ripple  of  a  stream 
Beside     our     native    porch — the    hearth-light's 

gleam, 
The  voices,  earliest  by  the  soul  rever'd ! 

32 


(374) 


XVI.— ATTRACTION  OF  THE  EAST. 

WHAT  secret  current  of  man's  nature  turns 
Unto  the  golden  east  with  ceaseless  flow  ? 
Still,  where  the  sunbeam  at  its  fountain  burns, 
The  pilgrim  spirit  would  adore  and  glow  ; 
Rapt  in  high  thoughts,  though  weary,  faint,  and 

slow, 

Still  doth  the  traveller  through  the  desert's  wind, 
Led  by  those  old  Chaldean  stars,  which  know 
Where  pass'd  the  shepherd  fathers  of  mankind. 
Is  it  some  quenchless  instinct,  which  from  far 
Still  points  to  where  our  alienated  home 
Lay  in  bright  peace  ?     O  thou  true  eastern  star, 
Saviour !  atoning  Lord  !  where'er  we  roam, 
Draw  still  our  hearts  to  thee ;  else,  else  how  vain 
Their  hope,  the  fair  lost  birthright  to  regain. 


XVII.— TO  AN  AGED  FRIEND. 

NOT  long  thy  voice  amongst  us  may  be  heard, 
Servant  of  God ! — thy  day  is  almost  done  ; 
The  charm  now  lingering  in  thy  look  and  wor.l 
Is  that  which  hangs  about  thy  setting  sun, 
That  which  the  spirit  of  decay  hath  won 
Still  from  revering  love.     Yet  doth  the  sense 
Of  life  immortal — progress  but  begun — 
Pervade  thy  mien  with  such  clear  eloquence, 
That    hope,    not    sadness,    breathes    from    thy 
decline  ; 


(375) 

A.nd  the  loved  flowers  which  round  thee  smile 

farewell, 

Of  more  than  vernal  glory  seem  to  tell, 
By  the  pure  spirit  touch'd  with  light  divine ; 
While  we,  to  whom  its  parting  gleams  are  given, 
Forget  the  grave  in  trustful  thoughts  of  heaven. 


XVIII.— FOLIAGE. 

COME  forth,  and  let  us  through  our  hearts  receive 
The  joy  of  verdure  ! — see,  the  honied  lime 
Showers  cool  green  light  o'er  banks  where  wild 

flowers  weave 

Thick  tapestry  ;  and  woodbine  tendrils  climb 
Up  the  brown  oak  from  buds  of  moss  and  thyrne. 
The  rich  deep  masses  of  the  sycamore 
Hang  heavy  with  the  fulness  of  their  prime, 
And  the  white  poplar,  from  its  foliage  hoar, 
Scatters  forth  gleams  like  moonlight,  with  each 

gale 
That  sweeps  the  boughs : — the  chestnut  flowers 

are  past, 

The  crowning  glories  of  the  hawthorn  fail, 
But  arches  of  sweet  eglantine  are  cast 
From  every  hedge  :     Oh  !  never  may  we  lose, 
Dear  friend !  our  fresh  delight  in  simplest  nature's 

hues ! 


(376; 


XIX.— A  PRAYER. 

FATHER  in  Heaven !   from  whom  the  simplest- 
flower 

On  the  high  Alps  or  fiery  desert  thrown, 
Draws  not  sweet  odor  or  young  life  alone, 
But  the  deep  virtue  of  an  inborn  power 
To  cheer  the  wanderer  in  his  fainting  hour, 
With  thoughts  of  Thee  ;  to  strengthen,  to  infuse 
Faith,  love,  and  courage,  by  the  tender  hues 
That  speak  thy  presence  ;  oh !  with  such  a  dower 
Grace  thou  my  song  ! — the  precious  gift  bestow 
From  thy  pure  Spirit's  treasury  divine, 
To  wake  one  tear  of  purifying  flow, 
To  soften  one  wrung  heart  for  thee  and  thine ; 
So  shall    the    life    breathed  through  the  lowly 

strain, 

Be  as  the  meek  wild  flower's — if  transient,  yet 
not  vain. 


XX.— PRAYER  CONTINUED. 

FAR  are  the  wings  of  intellect  astray, 

That  strive  not,  Father !  to  thy  heavenly  seat ; 

They  rove,  but  mount  not ;  and  the  tempest  a 

beat 
Still    on    their   plumes  : — O   source    of   mentai 

day ! 

Chase  from  before  my  spirit's  track  the  array 
Of  mists  and  shadows,  raised  by  earthly  care 
In  troubled  hosts  that  cross  the  purer  air, 
<Vnd  veil  the  opening  of  the  starry  way, 


•(377) 

Which  brightens  on  to  thce  ! — Oh !  guide  thou 

right 
My  thought's  weak  pinion,  clear  mine  inward 

sight, 

The  eternal  springs  of  beauty  to  discern, 
Welling  beside  thy  throne  ;  unseal  mine  ear, 
Nature's  true  oracles  in  joy  to  hear  : 
Keep  my  soul  wakeful  still  to  listen  and  to  learn. 


XXL— MEMORIAL  OF  A  CONVERSATION. 

YES  !  all  things  tell  us  of  a  birthright  lost, 
A  brightness  from  our  nature  pass'd  away ! 
Wanderers  we  seem,  that  from  an  alien  coast, 
Would  turn  to  where  their  Father's  mansion  lay, 
And  but  by  some  lone  flower,  that  'midst  decay 
Smiles  mournfully,  or  by  some  sculptured  stone, 
Revealing  dimly,  with  grey  moss  o'ergrown, 
The  faint-worn  impress  of  its  glory's  day, 
Can  trace  their  once-free  heritage ;  though  dreams 
Fraught  with  its  picture,  oft  in  startling  gleams 
Flash  o'er  their  souls. — But  One,  oh !  One  alone, 
For  us  the  ruin'd  fabric  may  rebuild, 
And  bid  the  wilderness  again  be  fill'd 
With  Eden-flowers — One,  mighty  to  atone ! 

32* 


(  378 )  • 


RECORDS  OF  THE  AUTUMN  OF  1834. 


I— THE  RETURN  TO  POETRY. 

ONCE  more  the  eternal  melodies  from  far, 
Woo  me  like  songs  of  home :  once  more  dis- 
cerning 

Through  fitful  clouds  the  pure  majestic  star, 
Above  the  poet's  world  serenely  burning, 
Thither  my  soul,  fresh-wing'd  by  love,  is  turning, 
As  o'er  the  waves  the  wood  bird  seeks  her  nest, 
For     those     green     heights    of   dewy    stillness 

yearning, 
Whence    glorious    minds    o'erlook    this    earth's 

unrest. 

— Now  be  the  spirit  of  Heaven's  truth  my  guide 
Through  the  bright  land  ! — that  no  brief  glad- 
ness, fourid 

In  passing  bloom,  rich  odor,  or  sweet  sound, 
May  lure  my  footsteps  from  their  aim  aside  : 
Their  true  high  quest — to  seek,  if  ne'er  to  gain, 
The  inmost,  purest  shrine  of  that  august  domain- 


(379) 


II  —TO  SILVIO  PELLICO,  ON  READING  HIS 
"  PRIG1ONE." 

THERE  are  who  climb  the  mountain's  heathery 

side, 

Or,  in  life's  vernal  strength  triumphant,  urge 
The  Lark's  fleet  rushing  through   the   crested 

surge, 

Or  spur  the  courser's  fiery  race  of  pride 
Over  the  green  savannas,  gleaming  wide 
By  some  vast  lake  ;  yet  thus,  on  foaming  sea, 
Or  chainless  wild,  reign  far  less  nobly  free, 
Than  thou,  in  that  lone  dungeon,  glorified 
By  thy  brave  suffering. — Thou  from  its  dark  cell 
Fierce  thought  and  baleful  passion  didst  exclude, 
Filling  the  dedicated  solitude 
With  God ;  and  where  His  Spirit  deigns  to  dwell, 
Though  the  worn  frame  in  fetters  withering  'lie, 
There  throned  in  peace  divine  is  liberty ! 


III.— TO  THE  SAME,  RELEASED. 

How  flows  thy  being  now  ? — like    some    glad 

hymn, 

One  strain  of  solemn  rapture  ?— doth  thine  eye 
Wander  through  tears  of  voiceless  feeling  dim, 
O'er  the  crown'd  Alps,  that,  'midst  the  upper  sky 
Sleep  in  the  sunlight  of  thine  Italy  ? 
Or  is  thy  gaze  of  reverent  love  profound.   • 
Unto  those  dear  parental  faces  bound, 
Which,  with  their  silvery  hair,  so  oft  glanced  by 


(380) 

Haunting  thy  prison-dreams  ? — Where'er  thou  art, 
Blessing  be  shed  upon  thine  inmost  heart, 
Joy,  from  kind  looks,  blue  skies,  and  flowery  sod, 
For  that  pure  voice  of  thoughtful  wisdom  sent 
Forth  from  thy  cell,  in  sweetness  eloquent, 
Of  love  to  man,  and  quenchless  trust  in  God  ! 


IV.— ON  A  SCENE  IN  THE  DARGLE. 

'TWAS  a  bright  moment  of  my  life  when  first, 
0    thou    pure    stream    through    rocky   portals 

flowing  ! 

That  temple-chamber  of  thy  glory  burst 
On  -  my   glad    sight ! — thy   pebbly   couch    lay 

glowing 

With  deep  mosaic  hues ;  and,  richly  throwing 
O'er  thy  cliff-walls  a  tinge  of  autumn's  vest, 
High  bloom'd  the  heath  flowers,  and  the  wild 

wood's  crest 
Was    touch'd    with    gold. — Flow    ever     thus, 

bestowing 

Gifts  of  delight,  sweet  stream !  on  all  who  move 
Gently  along  thy  shores  ;  and  oh  !  if  love, 
— True    love,    in   secret    nursed,    with   sorrow 

fraught — 
Should  sometimes  bear  his  treasured  griefs  to 

thee, 

Then  full  of  kindness  let  thy  music  be, 
Singing  repose  to  every  troubled  thought ' 


(  381  ) 


V.— ON  READING  COLERIDGE'S  EPITAPH. 

SPIRIT  !  so  oft  in  radiant  freedom  soaring, 
High  through  seraphic  mysteries  unconfined, 
And  oft,  a  diver  through  the  deep  of  mind, 
Its  caverns,  far  below  its  waves,  exploring  ; 
And  oft  such  strains  of  breezy  music  pouring, 
As,  with  the  floating  sweetness  of  their  sighs, 
Could  still  all  fevers  of  the  heart,  restoring 
Awhile  that  freshness  left  in  Paradise  ; 
Say,  of  those  glorious  wanderings  what  the  goal  ? 
What  the  rich  fruitage  to  man's  kindred  soul 
From  wealth  of  thine  bequeathed?     O  strong 

and  high, 

And  sceptred  intellect !  thy  goal  confess'd 
Was  the  Redeemer's  Cross — thy  last  bequest 
One  lesson  breathing  thence  profound  humility ! 


VI.— ON  THE  DATURA  ARBOREA. 

MAJESTIC  plant !  such  fairy  dreams  as  lie 
Nursed,  where  the  bee  sucks  in  the  cowslip's 

bell, 
Are  not  thy  train : — those  flowers  of  vase-like 

swell, 
Clear,  large,  with  dewy  moonlight  fill'd  from 

high, 

And  in  their  monumental  purity 
Serenely  drooping,  round  thee  seem  to  draw 
Visions  link'd  strangely  with  that  silent  awe 
Which  broods  o'er  Sculpture's  works. — A  m^et 

ally. 


(382.) 

For  those  heroic  forms,  the  simply  grand 

Art  thou :  and  worthy,  carved  by  plastic  hand, 

Above  some  kingly  poet's  tomb  to  shine 

In  spotless  marble  ;  honoring  one,  whose  train 

Soar'd  upon  wings  of  thought  that  knew  no  stain 

Free  through  the  starry  heavens  of  truth  divine. 


VII.— DESIGN  AND  PERFORMANCE. 

THEY  float  before  my  soul,  the  fair  designs 
Which  I  would  body  forth  to  Life  and  Power, 
Like  clouds,  that  with  their  wavering  hues  and 

lines 

Portray  majestic  buildings : — Dome  and  tower, 
Bright  spire,  that  through  the  rainbow  and  the 

shower 

Points  to  th'  unchanging  stars ;  and  high  arcade 
Far-sweeping  to  some  glorious  altar,  made 
For  holiest  rites: — meanwhile  the  waning  hour 
Melts   from  me,   and   by  fervent   dreams    o'er- 

wrought, 
I  sink  : — O  friend !    O   link'd  with  each  high 

thought 

Aid  me,  of  those  rich  visions  to  detain 
All  I  may  grasp ;  until  thou  see'st  fulfill'd, 
While  time  and  strength  allow,  my  hope  to  build 
For  lowly  hearts  devout,  but  one  enduring  fane  '• 


(383) 


VIII.— HOPE  OF  FUT-URE  COMMUNION  WITH 
NATURE. 

IF  e'er  again  my  spirit  be  allow'd 
Converse  with  nature  in  her  chambers  deep, 
Where  lone,  and  mantled  with  the  rolling  cloud. 
She  broods  o'er  new-born  waters,  as  they  leap 
In  sword-like  flashes  down  the  heathery  steep 
From  caves  of  mystery ; — if  I  roam  once  more 
Where  dark  pines  quiver  to  the  torrent's  roar, 
And  voiceful  oaks  respond ! — shall  I  not  reap 
A  more  ennobling  joy,  a  loftier  power, 
Than  e'er  was  shed  on  life's  more  vernal  hour, 
From   such   communion  ? — yes  !    I    then    shall 

know, 

That  not  in  vain  have  sorrow,  love,  and  thought, 
Their  long  still  work  of  preparation  wrought, 
For   that   more  perfect  sense  of  God  reveal 'd 

below. 


IX.— DREAMS  OF  THE  DEAD. 

OFT  in  still  night-dreams  a  departed  face 
Bends  o'er  me  with  sweet  earnestness  of  eye 
Wearing  no  more  of  earthly  pains  a  trace, 
But  all  the  tender  pity  that  may  lie 
On  the  clear  brow  of  immortality, 
Calm,  yet  profound.     Soft  rays  illume  that  mien, 
Th'  unshadow'd  moonlight  of  some  far-off  sky 
Around  it  floats  transparently  serene 
As  a  pure  veil  of  waters.     O  rich  sleep  ! 
Thou  hast  strong  spirits  in  thy  regions  deep, 


(384) 

Which  glorify  with  reconciling  breath, 
Effacing,  brightening,  giving  forth  to  shine 
Beauty's  high  truth,  and  how  much  more  divine 
Thy  power  when  link'd  in  this,  with  thy  stern 
brother — Death ! 


X.— POETRY  OF  THE  PSALMS. 

NOBLY  thy  song,  O  minstrel !  rush'd  to  meet 
Th'  Eternal  on  the  pathway  of  the  blast, 
With  darkness  round  him,  as  a  mantle,  cast, 
A  cherubim  to  waft  his  flying  seat  ; 
Amidst  the  hills  that  smoked  beneath  his  feet, 
With  trumpet-voice  thy  spirit  cail'd  aloud, 
And  bade  the  trembling  rocks  his  name  repeat, 
And  the  bent  cedars,  and  the  bursting  cloud. 
But  far  more  gloriously  to  earth  made  known 
By  that  high  strain  than  by  the  thunder's  tone, 
The  flashing  torrents,  or  the  ocean's  roll, 
Jehovah  spake,  through  the  inbreathing  fire, 
Nature's  vast  realms  forever  to  inspire 
With  the  deep  worship  of  a  living  sou-. 


3S5 


THOUGHTS  DURING  SICKNESS. 


I.— INTELLECTUAL  POWERS 

O  THOUGHT  !  O  Memory  !  gems  forever  heaping 
High  in  the  illumined  chambers  of  the  mind, 
And  thou,  divine  Imagination  !  keeping 
Thy    lamp's    lone    star    'mid    shadowy    hosts 

enshrined  ; 

How  in  one  moment  rent  and  disentwined, 
At  Fever's  fiery  touch,  apart  they  fall, 
Your  glorious  combinations  ! — broken  all, 
As  the  sand-pillars  by  the  desert's  wind 
Scatter'd     to     whirling    dust ! — Oh,    soon    un- 

crown'd ! 
Well    may   your    parting    swift,    your   strange 

return, 

Subdue  the  soul  to  lowliness  profound, 
Guiding  its  chasten'd  vision  to  discern 
How  by  meek  Faith  Heaven's  portals  must  be 

pass'd 
Ero  it  can  hold  your  gifts  inalienably  fast. 

33 


II.— SICKNESS  LIKE  NIGHT 

THOU  art  like  Night,  O  Sickness !  deeply  stilling 
Within  my  heart  the  world's  disturbing  bound, 
And  the  dim  quiet  of  my  chamber  filling 
With    low,    sweet    voices     by     Life's     tumuJ 

drown'd, 
Thou    art    like   awful    Night ! — thou   gather'st 

round 
The  things  that  are  unseen — though  close  they 

lie, — 

And  with  a  truth,  clear,  startling,  and  profound, 
Givest  their  dread  presence  to  our  mental  eye. 
— Thou  art  like  starry,  spiritual  Night ! 
High  and  immortal  thoughts  attend  thy  way, 
And  revelations,  which  the  common  light 
Brings  not,  though  wakening  with  its  rosy  ray 
All  outward  life  : — Be  welcome  'then  thy  rod, 
Before  whose  touch  my  soul  unfolds  itself  to  God. 


ill.— ON  RETZSCH'S  DESIGN  OF  THE  ANGEL  OF 
DEATH. 

WELL  might  thine  awful  image  thus  arise 
With  that  high  calm  upon  thy  regal  brow, 
And  the  deep,  solemn  sweetness  in  those  eyes, 
Unto  the  glorious  Artist ! — Who  but  thou 
The  fleeting  forms  of  beauty  can  endow 
For  Him  with  permanency  ? — who  make  those 

gleams 

Of  brighter  life,  that  color  his  lone  dreams, 
Immortal  things  ? — Let  others  trembling  bow, 


(3S7) 

Angel  of  Death !  before  thee. — Not  to  those, 
Whose  spirits  with  Eternal  Truth  repose, 
Art  thou  a  fearful  shape  ! — and  oh  !  for  me, 
How  full  of  welcome  would  thine  aspect  shine, 
Did  not  the  cords  of  strong  affection  twine 
So  fast  around  my  soul,  it  cannot  spring  to  thee  . 


IV.— REMEMBRANCE  OF  NATURE. 

O  NATURE  !  thou  didst  rear  me  for  thine  own, 
With   thy   free    singing    birds    and    mountain 

brooks ; 
Feeding    my    thoughts     in     primrose-haunted 

nooks, 

With  fairy  fantasies  and  wood-dreams  lone  ; 
And  thou  didst  teach  me  every  wandering  tone 
Drawn   from  thy   many  whispering   irees  and 

waves, 

And  guide  my  steps  to  founts  and  sparry  caves, 
And   where    bright   mosses    wove    thee   a  rich 

throne 
'Midst    the    green    hills : — and    now   that    far 

estranged 

From  all  sweet  sounds  and  odors  of  thy  breath, 
Fading  I  lie,  within  my  heart  unchanged, 
So  glows  the  love  of  thee,  that  not  for  Death 
Seems  that  pure  passion's  fervor — but  ordain'd 
To  meet  on  brighter  shores  thy  Majesty  unstain'd 


(388; 

V.— FLIGHT  OF  THE  SPIRIT. 

WHITHER,    oh!    whither   wilt   thou   wing    thy 

way? 

What  solemn  region  first  upon  thy  sight 
Shall  break,  imveil'd  for  terror  or  delight  ? 
\\  hat  hosts,  magnificent  in  dread  array  ? 
My  spirit !  when  thy  prison-house  of  clay, 
After  long  strife  is  rent  ?— fond,  fruitless  guest ! 
The  unfledged  bird,  within  his  narrow  nest 
Sees  but  a  few  green  branches  o'er  him  play, 
And    through    their     parting     leaves,     by  'fits 

reveal'd, 
A   glimpse   of    summer   sky:— Nor  knows  the 

field 

Wherein  his  dormant  powers  must  yet  be  tried. 
-Thou  art  that  bird!— of  what  beyond  thee 

lies 

Far  in  the  untrack'd,  immeasurable  skies, 
Knowing   but   this— that  thou  shalt    find    thy 
Guide ! 


VI.— FLOWERS. 

WELCOME,  O  pure  and  lovely  forms,  again 
Unto  the  shadowy  stillness  of  my  room ! 
For  not  alone  ye  bring  a  joyous  tram 

'f  summer-thoughts  attendant  on  your  bloom— 
V  isions  of  freshness,  of  rich  bowery  gloom, 
Of  the  low  murmurs  filling  mossy  dells, 
Of  stars  that  look  down  on  your  folded'bells 
Through  dewy  leaves,  of  many  a  wild  perfume 


(389) 

Greeting  the  wanderer  of  the  hill  and  grove 
Like  sudden  music  ;  more  than  this  ye  bring — 
Far  more  ;  ye  whisper  of  the  all-fostering  love 
Which  thus  hath  clothed  you,  and  whose  dove- 

*    like  wing 

Broods  o'er  the  sufferer  drawing  fever'd  breath, 
Whether  the  couch  be  that  of  life  or  death. 


VII.— RECOVERY. 

BACK  then,  once  more  to  breast  the  waves  of  life 
To  battle  on  against  the  unceasing  spray, 
To  sink  o'envearied  in  the  stormy  strife, 
And  rise  to  strife  again ;  yet  on  my  way, 
Oh  !  Mnger  still,  thou  light  of  better  day, 
Born  in  the  hours  of  loneliness,  and  you, 
Ye  child-like  thoughts,  the  holy  and  the  true, 
Ye  that  came  bearing,  while  subdued  I  lay, 
The  faith,  the  insight  of  life's  vernal  morn 
BactC  on  my  soul,  a  clear  bright  sense,  new-born. 
Now  leave  me  not !  but  as,  profoundly  pure, 
A  blue  stream  rushes  through  a  darker  lake 
Unchang'd,   e'en  thus  with    me    your  journey 

take, 
Wafting  sweet  airs  of  heaven  through  this  low 

world  obscure. 

33* 


(390) 


SABBATH  SONNET. 

COMPOSED    BY    MRS.     HEMANS    A    FEW    DAYS     BEFORE 
HER  DEATH.   AND  DEDICATED  TO  HER  BROTHER. 

How  many  blessed  groups  this  hour  are  bending, 
Through  England's  primrose  meadow-paths,  their 

way 
Towards  spire  and  tower,  'midst  shadowy  elms 

ascending, 
Whence  the  sweet  chimes  proclaim  the  hallow'd 

day  ! 

The  halls  from  old  heroic  ages  grey 
Pour  their  fair  children  forth  ;  and  hamlets  low, 
With  whose  thick  orchard-blooms  the  soft  winds 

play 

Sends  out  their  inmates  in  a  happy  flow, 
Like  a  freed  vernal  stream.     I  may  not  tread 
With  them  those  pathways, — to  the  feverish  bed 
Of  sickness  bound  ; — yet,  oh,  my  God  !  I  bless 
Thy  mercy,  that  with  Sabbath  peace  hath  fill'd 
My  chasten'd  heart,  and  all  its  throbbings  still'd 
To  one  deep  calm  of  lowliest  thankfulness. 


(391) 


A  POET'S  DYING  HYMN. 

Be  mute  who  will,  who  can, 
Yet  I  will  praise  thee  with  impassion'd  voice ! 
Me  didst  thou  constitute  a  priest  of  thine 
In  such  a  temple  as  we  now  behold, 
Ilear'd  for  thy  presence  ;  therefore  am  I  bound 
To  worship  here,  and  every  where. 

WORDSWORTH. 

THE  blue,  deep,  glorious  heavens ! — I  lift  mine 

eye, 

And  bless  thee,  O  my  God !  that  I  have  met 
And  own'd  thine  image  in  the  majesty 

Of  their  calm  temple  still ! — that  never  yet 
There  hath  thy  face  been  shrouded  from  my  sight 
By  noontide  blaze,  or  sweeping  storm  of  night : 
I  bless  thee,  O  my  God  ! 

That  now  still  clearer,  from  their  pure  expanse, 
1  see  the  mercy  of  thine  aspect  shine, 

Touching  death's  features  with  a  lovely  glance 
Of  light  serenely,  solemnly  divine, 

And  lending  to  each  holy  star  a  ray 

As  of  kind  eyes,  that  woo  my  soul  away : 
I  bless  thee,  O  my  God ! 

That  I  have  heard  thy  voice,  nor  been  afraid, 

In  the  earth's  garden — 'midst  the  mountains  old. 
And  the  low  thrillings  of  the  forest  shade, 
And  the  wild  sounds  of  waters  uncontroll'd, 
And  upon  many  a  desert  plain  and  shore — 
No  solitude — for  there  I  felt  thee  more  : 
I  bless  thee,  O  my  God ! 


(392) 

And  if  thy  spirit  on  thy  child  hath  shed 
•  The  gift,  the  vision  of  the  unseal'd  eye, 
To  pierce  the  mist  o'er  life's  deep  meanings  spread, 

To  reach  the  hidden  fountain-urns  that  Ira 
Far  in  man's  heart — if  I  have  kept  it  free 
And  pure — a  consecration  unto  thee  : 
I  bless  thee,  O  my  God ! 

If    my   soul's    utterance    hath    by   thee    been 

fraught 
With    an    awakening    power — if    thou   hast 

made, 
Like    the   wing'd    seed,  the  breathings  of  my 

thought, 

And  by  the  swift  winds  bid  them  be  convey'd 
To  lands  of  other  lays,  and  there  become 
Native  as  early  melodies  of  home  : 

1  bless  thee,  O  my  God  ! 

Not  for  the  brightness  of  a  mortal  wreath, 
Not  for  a  place  'midst  kingly  minstrels  dead, 

But  that,  perchance,  a  faint  gale  of  thy  breath, 
A  still  small  whisper  in  my  song  hath  led 

One  struggling  spirit  upwards  to  thy  throne, 

Or  but  one  hope,  one  prayer : — for  this  alone 
I  bless  thee,  O  my  God  ! 

That  I  have  loved — that  I  have  known  the  love 
Which  troubles  in  the  soul  the  tearful  springs, 

Yet,  with  a  coloring  hale  from  above, 
Tinges  and  glorifies  all  earthly  things, 

Whate'er  its  anguish  or  its  woe  may  be, 

Still  weaving  links  for  intercourse  with  thee: 
I  ble^s  thee,  O  mv  God ! 


(393) 

That  by  the  passion  of  its  deep  distress, 

And  by  the  overflowing  of  its  mighty  prayer, 

And  by  the  yearning  of  its  tenderness, 

Too  full  for  words  upon  their  stream  to  bear, 

I  have  been  drawn  still  closer  to  thy  shrine, 

Weil-spring  of  love,  the  imfathom'd,  the  divine ; 
I  bless  thee,  O  my  God  ! 

That  hope  hath  ne'er  my  heart  or  song  forsaken, 
High  hope,  which  even  from  mystery,  doubt, 

or  dread, 
Calmly,  rejoicingly,  the  things  hath  taken, 

Whereby  its  torchlight  for  the  race  was  fed  ; 
That  passing  storms  have  only  fann'd  the  fire, 
Which  pierced  them  still  with  its  triumphal  spire, 
I  bless  thee,  O  my  God ! 

Now  art  thou  calling  me  in  every  gale, 
Each  sound  and  token  of  the  dying  day : 

Thou  leav'st  me  not,  though  early  life  grows  pale, 
I  am  not  darkly  sinking  to  decay ; 

But,  hour  by  hour,  my  soul's  dissolving  shroud, 

Melts  off  to  radiance,  as  a  silvery  cloud. 
I  bless  thee,  O  my  God  ! 

And  if  this  earth,  with  all  its  choral  streams, 
And  crowning  woods,  and  soft  or  solemn  skies, 

And  mountain  sanctuaries  for  poet's  dreams, 
lie  lovely  still  in  my  departing  eyes — 

'Tis  not  that  fondly  I  would  linger  here, 

But  that  thy  foot-prints  on  its  dust  appear : 
I  bless  thee,  O  my  God ! 


(  304  ) 

And  that  the  tender  shadowing  I  behold, 

The  tracery  veining  every  leaf  and  flower, 
'Of  glories  cast  in  more  consummate  mould, 
No  longer  vassals  to  the  changeful  hour ; 
That  life's  last  roses  to  my  thoughts  can  bring 
Rich  visions  of  imperishable  spring  : 

I  bless  thee,  O  my  God  ! 

Yes !  the  young  vernal  voices  in  the  skies 
Woo  me  not  back,  but,  wandering  past  mine  ear, 

Some  heralds  of  th'  eternal  melodies, 
The  spirit-music,  imperturb'd  and  clear  ; 

The  full  of  soul,  yet  passionate  no  more — 

Let  me  too,  joining  those  pure  strains,  adore ! 
I  bless  thee,  O  my  God  ! 

Now  aid,  sustain  me  still ! — to  thee  I  come, 
Make  thou  my  d  welling  where  thy  children  are ! 

And  for  the  hope  of  that  immortal  home, 

And  for  thy  Son,  the  bright  and  morning  star, 

The  sufferer  and  the  victor-king  of  death, 

I  bless  thee  with  my  glad  song's  dying  breath  I 
I  bless  thee,  O  my  God  ! 


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